Caged
by Libek
Summary: Post-"The Avengers", Loki is in Asgard and in chains. Everything has changed, except for the love of his brother - and that is one thing he simply cannot abide. Thor/Loki main.
1. Of Promises Made

Music and the sound of laughter drifted up from the city streets below: there would be a feast tonight, all the wine and all the mead and all the ale in all of Asgard, spiced meats and succulent fruits and decadent desserts enough for even Volstagg's appetite. It would be a marvelous event, and all who could come would come, and all would dance under the stars and on into the pale hours of the morning.

All who could come, save him.

Thor had no stomach for sitting through another long dinner in celebration of all his brother's failings.

It would reflect poorly on their house, and knowing that Thor had tried. He had steeled himself, allowing servants to dress him in fine new clothes as befit their future king, and had truly meant to venture out into the beautiful winding corridors that would lead him to the wide hall where every other man, woman, and child of Asgard would make merry this night.

And then the servants were gone and he stood alone before the long mirror they had used to check their work and very abruptly he had not been able to bear any of it.

The sight of himself in his finery, the lavish bedchambers in which he stood, all the trappings of the life he had proven himself unworthy of a year ago, and where his brother should have been, standing beside him, fitted with his own green silk-

For a moment more, he had somehow held it all in check, hands clenching into fists but nothing else.

A moment more, before everything came crashing down.

Thor scarcely remembered tearing the hangings from the walls, the sheets from the bed, upending the furniture, or the sounds of shattering porcelain and ripping fabric. All he knew was that suddenly he looked round, breathing ragged and heart racing, to see with an ugly satisfaction that the room he had grown up in - the room _they_ had grown up in - now looked as broken as he felt.

From the doorway behind him, his mother's voice came softly: "It has been a poor homecoming for you both, but you make much work for our servants."

He stiffened, then flushed. He had not thought - no, of course he hadn't. Thor bent quickly to retrieve a large shard of porcelain, staring helplessly at all the many, many smaller slivers. He had changed so little. "Poorer for him," he murmured.

Silence, taut with misery. When they'd first arrived, tendrils of the Tesseract's magic still clinging to them, she had flung herself towards them - and then stopped short, so visibly stricken, at the sight of her wayward son.

"...Yes," she said at last, heavily. "Much poorer."

Words could be a very effective weapon, even in unskilled hands. Too late, Thor regretted that attack, too. But he could not quite bring himself to apologize.

He got slowly to his feet and moved to right a dresser. "I will not be going to dinner," he told her.

She bore his words. "Nor I. But there must be - a feast." Her voice held a bitter edge. "Glad tidings demand no less. The Tesseract was recovered, the mortal realm spared - and my sons returned to me." Those last words, she whispered.

"One of them in chains."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch.

"...Better he be in chains than dead."

It should have been harder to agree with her. There would have been honor in such a death, felled by worthy opponents on the field of battle; even as an enemy, it might have secured Loki a place in Valhalla. Was that not the kind of end he had dreamed of as a boy?

But the year he had spent thinking Loki truly lost welled up in his throat, tightened it until he could not breathe.

_Why,_ he had asked them so many times since. _Why did you lie to him?_

And every time he'd asked, he had searched her face and his father's for any sign of malice, any hint that their intentions had been even slightly less than what they said. In hers, he had found nothing.

Thor could not keep his back to her, could not keep his distance. He could cause her no more pain.

He crossed the room with quick strides then and laid his hands on her shoulders, and she looked up at him with such naked gratitude, her eyes wet with tears, that he found it hard to speak.

"What..." He wet his lips and tried again. "Do you know what Father's judgment will be?"

She hesitated, then lowered her eyes. "It is not - in his hands alone, this time. For crimes this high..." And there, her voice broke. "There must be a trial."

That clenched cold in the pit of his stomach. For the first time since his exile, Thor found himself wishing he were not so very far from being king himself. "A trial," he repeated slowly.

The wisdom in it was plain - Loki had done too much this time, taken too many lives, bartered with the Chitauri - but so, too, was the danger. All the noble families would be there, all would raise their voices, all would pass judgment on his brother...

He curled his hands into impotent fists.

His mother's eyes wore heavily on him, and when he looked up he was struck by how pale she had become, how small she seemed, and her eyes - her eyes, in the dim light, were nevertheless red and shining. She had been weeping, and... not only today.

_If only Loki could see this._ Their mother's fear for him, so plainly etched upon her face. Even he would not have been able to deny...

But he could all too well imagine his brother's mocking voice in his ear. _Sentiment,_ it hissed, and the knife went in.

Still, she drew herself to her full height, and when she told him, "Your father will do what he can," Thor could tell she believed it - and so did he, when he looked at her.

The trouble was that it might not be enough.

A trial. Thor dug his fingers deep into his own palms. He knew so little of them. He had never been to one before, had never been particularly interested in the _legal_ aspect of justice, and he cursed himself for it now. "If only there were something..."

He felt his mother's gentle hands on his jaw, bidding him to raise his head, and wondered when he had lowered it. Her smile was tense, but there was a strength in it as she met his eyes. "There is."

The smallest spark of hope lit in his chest, but she did not stop there, and what she said next snuffed the flame before it could even begin to truly burn.

"At a meeting of nobles, Thor Odinson, you have as much right to speak on his behalf as any in our realm have to decry him."

Thor struggled to match her smile, bringing his own hands up over hers on his jaw. "Mother," he said, carefully and haltingly because he did not want her heart to sink as his had, "I have no special gift with words."

This was not the sort of battle he knew how to fight.

To his surprise, her smile did not dim. "I know," she uttered. "You are brave and strong and kind - but I had always hoped..." And there she trailed off, but he knew what she meant to say and it made him heartsick.

It was a bitter irony indeed that they needed Loki to speak in his own defense - and one thing that would never be allowed, not from the man they all knew as Silvertongue, the man who had been brought back with his mouth sealed by enspelled gag because _his_ words were more weapon than most.

Thor ran his tongue uncertainly over the roof of his own mouth. It felt slow, thoroughly inadequate for the task he was about to undertake. "I will go anyway, and do what I can."

Then he pursed his lips and corrected himself.

"No. That is not enough. Mother," and he exerted gentle pressure on her hands, "I swear it on my life and my honor. I will not let him come to undue harm."

Finally, his mother's smile trembled, but she only nodded, leaning in to press her lips to his forehead. She had to go up on tiptoe to manage it. "Thor, son of Odin... I accept this oath," she told him softly.

This time he managed to match her smile, and perhaps she felt a little better, but they both knew that even with so much staked upon it the oath was still, at best, fragile spidersilk hung between them.

She broke the silence only haltingly. "Have you..." For an instant, Thor thought she would decide against whatever this question was, but then she pressed on all in an urgent rush. "Have you been to see him yet?"

It should not have startled him. Thor paused, and found himself unable to quite meet her eyes. The truth of it seemed abruptly shameful. "-No, I... I have not seen him since we arrived." He hesitated, then turned it back on her: "Have you?"

Her lips went white and she lowered her eyes. "I... have gone to see him," she confessed. "He would not look at me."

Thor could not help the small surge of outrage on her behalf. "What? Mother-"

But she was already waving it away, almost impatient with his defense. Her smile trembled again. "He has not forgiven me for my part in his deception - nor should he. I bear no less blame for it than his father," she added firmly, even with her eyes haunted. "...But he does yet have kin who played no part in this lie, Thor. You, I think, he may be willing to see."

Thor had to shut his eyes against her words, just for a moment, and was surprised at the uneasy tilt of his stomach. Surprised at himself, that her request was not easier to accept. All day he had wanted nothing so badly as to see his brother - but now that it was offered to him, _sought_ of him, he found himself... afraid, somehow, as well. Afraid of his reception.

Not all fear was shameful. He knew that, had learned it through pain and struggle, but with his mother still looking at him so earnestly he could do nothing but nod. He could say nothing but, "I will do as you ask, Mother."

She studied his face for a heartbeat - but not, he felt, because she doubted him. After a moment, she reached up again to touch his face and told him softly, "I know he still loves you, Thor. Whatever he may do or say. It's only that he thinks he's lost you."

Suddenly his eyes stung. If only he could have been as certain of that as she seemed. But again, he could do nothing but smile for her and say, "He will never lose me."

Of that much, he _was_ certain. That much, he _could_ pledge.

But then she brightened at his words, just a little, and said to him, "Then... I think he may yet mend."

And that... _that_ was such a terrible weight. Such a terrible responsibility.

For a moment, he could see his brother's broken smile in his mind's eye; for a moment, he could feel the bottom of his stomach dropping out as the capsule plummeted, feel the sudden sharp heat of the blade in his belly. And then all he felt, every bit as painful, was his chest clenching tighter than any fist with the need to believe her.

She was searching his face again, as if she wanted to be very sure that her words had taken proper seed, but at last she let her hands fall away from his face and pressed her cheek to his chest instead. He could feel fresh tears through the silk, and there she whispered, so faintly he almost failed to make it out:

"My boys."

His arms found their way around her waist, then, fastening tight as he shut his eyes and made the oath again: a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times, as many times as it took before he could make it true.

He would fight for his brother.

And somehow, someway, on some distant day, whether in this life or the next - he would win.


	2. Bend, Don't Break

It was a beautiful room, with a beautiful view; a perfect compliment to the beautiful silver chain that stretched between his pale wrists and sealed all his power. It less easily matched the gag that held his tongue. One trace of ugliness, giving lie to the luxury of a tower usually reserved for the most prestigious guests and now layered in spells he could only dimly make out without access to his own magics but already knew, without looking, would keep him here. In this beautiful room, in this beautiful tower, behind invisible bars.

Never had there been so gilded a cage.

Loki went to the windows each in turn, close enough again and again to all but lean into the power of them, and fancied he could curl his fingers through the elaborate threads that he knew should have been there, should have responded readily to his touch and frayed apart at his slightest whim - but, of course, he could feel nothing. Nothing but a void that hummed vaguely against his skin, insensate to his touch.

He drew his hand back; put it forth again, and imagined the threads he could neither see nor touch winding tight and tighter round his fingers until they cut into his skin and he bled and bled and bled until he had no red left in him and all that could come was _blue_-

But there were footfalls now on the staircase to his tower. Loki went so very still, his belly tightening against the thought - and easing again nearly as quickly, because no. The sound of it was all wrong for (and there he stopped that thought, for she was no kin to him and never had been) Frigga. Even when she visited him, her step was much lighter than this. Whoever came now up his stairs was sturdier, and almost certainly...

He realized it half a second too late to control the jerk of his head towards the door, but thankfully his visitor paused a moment before ascending the final step and so when Thor finally entered his cage Loki only raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, his expression one of supreme boredom.

_Yes,_ he thought. _Yes, of course._

Of course it would not have been enough for Thor to bring him back to Asgard, to see him _pay for his crimes_. Thor, who had always simply _had_ everything he'd ever wanted, would have scarcely been able to comprehend the idea of their struggle ending any other way. Of course he could not be _content_ with so assured a victory. No: they would have to _talk_ now, or Thor would have to talk and he with his tongue thoroughly trapped would have to listen.

It really _was_ boring.

But then Thor met his eyes, and Loki saw at once that come he had, and tiresome words there would be, but Odin's son - the golden god of thunder - had no idea what they would be. And that... _that_ was amusing.

Thor stared at him for a lengthy moment in silence, opened his mouth more than once, and then shut it again, crossing the elegant room abruptly to stand before one of its lying windows. It must have been easier for him there, speaking to it and not to his _beloved brother_, because it took him only a few seconds more before he said, "The deliberations have ended for today. They will resume upon the morrow."

With his back turned, it was easier to take in all of the smaller details: to see not a resplendent prince, bathed handsomely in the evening light, but a man dressed far too finely for this. Finely enough for him to have - _oh_, and that was even more amusing - for him to have gone to the trial _himself_.

Loki allowed himself to imagine it, painted the picture in his mind with care. _Did you sit in dumb silence while all those old men argued about my horrible deeds? Did you struggle to follow the longer and more complicated words? Did you try to convince yourself you could stand and speak with them?_ Oh, that must have been quite the sight.

But better still than all of that was the way Thor turned hesitantly again to face him, as if _concerned_ at his reaction to this news.

If only he could have smiled, could have _laughed_. What news. Obviously there would have been a trial. Obviously it would take longer than one day. The mere listing of his transgressions, Loki rather suspected, would have taken many hours. Not only was there no _news_ to be had, there was very little interest. He made a point of widening his eyes ever so slightly, so that Thor would _know_ his indifference.

_What now, Odinson? Was this everything you had to tell me?_

Again, Thor hesitated. He made to close the distance between them, then stopped himself, his eyes catching on the gag; predictable. Loki waited patiently, watching him wrench them away, watching him work to ignore it, listening to him stumble over even these simple words. "...For what little it may be worth-"

And that was it, all Thor could muster, before he gave up on words and reached out to cup his cheeks, callused fingers finding the clasps and very carefully unhooking them.

So very, very predictable. The sight of him in chains was hard enough for Thor to bear; the ugly gag had been too much.

_You've gotten so soft._

But Loki held still and let him work the contraption inexpertly, eyes slipping shut. He was thoroughly tired of its leather taste, of having his lips stretched wide - and there was little point in fighting it, if Thor wanted to give him the opportunity to _tell_ him exactly how soft he had gotten.

Right in his ear, Thor muttered, "This is pointless. I can get no answers like this," and then he felt the gag pulled free, heard the soft thump as it fell to the floor.

Now he could smile, so he did. "As opposed to now that I can speak, when I will - give you all the answers, I'm sure." His voice was a little rusty, but already it had smoothed tremendously; fine progress, for a single sentence. He opened his eyes and met Thor's blue.

The other god blinked, then laughed; low, and perhaps tired. "No," he said. "You'll give me evasions and lies and poison. But if in avoiding those I cut off all hope of anything better, then - I suppose I will simply have to endure."

"_Ah_, a sort of logic is at work!" Loki took a deliberate step back from him, a cool ripple of amusement. "I had thought you so smitten with Midgard that you hadn't any left."

But Thor only frowned this time. He did not look as horribly, wonderfully stricken as he had a year ago on the Bifrost. "They are not what you make them out to be."

Ever their hero. "Oh, and I suppose they're what _you_ make them out to be?" Loki felt his lip curling and did nothing to stop it. "Are they wise? Compassionate? _Good?_" He laced each word with the sweetest venom. "Are they _friends?_"

"Some of them." It was not the staunchest support he had ever made, but it was also quiet, and Loki could see the strain in him, the urge to raise his voice. "Some of them are better than we are."

_That_, he had no patience for. Loki laughed, short and sharp. "Oh, _spare_ me, Brother. They are greedy, aggressive, opportunistic, ambitious, spoiled little creatures who think they are the center of the universe." He spread his hands, a smooth expansive gesture, _sweet_. "They're not so different from us!" And then he let his voice go dark, cool, indifferent again. "Except that they are _insects_."

There was some faint pleasure to be had in watching his words land, watching the other man's wide eyes fill with pain and his expression contort. He drew a deep breath, his hands fisting at his sides, and then Thor said, "And yet, without the help of those insects, I could not have bested you."

Loki could hardly stand to listen to it. "Oh, no," he breathed. "You have it backwards, Brother. Without _your_ help, _they_ could not have bested me."

But Thor would have none of it. "_I_ would have fallen to your army, through sheer number," he insisted.

"_Really_," Loki said. His own amusement felt fragile, so he began to pace, circling the other man. "Then how helpless would have been the rest of them. I have not your strength, Thor, but I could lift one of their war-machines in my bare hands." He gestured fluidly. "I could compel them to tear one another apart with illusions, or mesmerize them into following my commands."

All the many things he could do, all the many ways they would _fall_, danced in the air between them for a moment. Real as the tendrils of magic he could not quite touch. And he could see them in his brother's clear blue eyes.

So he wove the image even more delicately, his voice lowering to something sibilant. "I could... give one of them a jubilant embrace and quite unintentionally reduce _her_ to a pulp."

Finally, a blow against her landed. Did he see it, then? Did he _know_ that his pathetic human woman wouldn't _survive_ his love?

Loki let his hands fall easily to his sides, listened to the pretty silver music of the chain.

"And even if I do nothing," he said, lowering his voice to cradle these words but not so low that the golden god might be spared even the smallest syllable, "within scant heartbeats, every last one of them will grow old and die before my eyes." It was a lovely image and he paused to savor it, met Thor's eyes and waited to be sure he knew the truth of it before he went on, his voice louder now with what could only have been triumph. "So _go on_. Tell me what value they have to offer me! Tell me how _they_, too, are _better_ than me." Somehow the hand he used to gesture was not perfectly steady, but Loki paid it no mind.

He was distracted at any rate by the sudden great _shock_ blooming in those too-blue eyes. Thor drew back a step, controlled himself with visible effort, and said slowly, "I do not compare them to you and find you lacking." As if the words were somehow foreign. "Brother, I compare them to _myself_."

How foolish. How _stupid_.

How like him.

Loki turned his back, frustrated. "Don't be _naive_," he snapped. "As if anyone in Asgard would not say that you are the best of them." It was a conscious effort to say _them_ and not _us_. "This false modesty does not suit you."

"I speak truly!" He could sense the aborted move towards him, feel it deep beneath his skin, but in the end Thor stayed where he was. "Our father stripped me of my powers, but had I not been unworthy of them I would have easily reclaimed them when I laid hands again on Mjolnir."

"And _his_ hubris is the cause of all of this," Loki hissed.

If things had been different, if-

But the truth would have been his to bear, soon enough. His questions after their merry trip to Jotunheim would not have simply gone away.

Loki grit his teeth and pressed on. "The man you _used_ to be might not have made the best king there ever was," he murmured, "but at least he had pride. He had self-respect. The mortals have made you like _them_."

"You forget yourself!"

For an instant, startled and outraged, he almost sounded as he once had. But then Thor mastered his voice, lowered it again, and added:

"He was right to respond as he did. If you cannot see that, then..."

It _burned_.

He spun to face the other god, then. "I am obviously the _only_ one of us here who knows myself," he said, low. "Odin spent a thousand years raising you to be king, and then he sent you away and practically overnight you were a changed man. There are more reasons than the obvious why you are no brother of mine."

His voice was smooth and even on the last; admirably so, he thought. And oh, to watch the color drain from Thor's face.

But it wasn't enough, it seemed. Even though he could _see_ how much every word had hurt, how deeply they twisted inside the golden god, Thor did not back away from him.

"...I needed distance from the trees," he said at last, softly, "to see the full majesty of the forest." A simple defense, simple in _all_ ways, but then he added: "You _are_ my brother."

Loki gazed at him. "You are delusional," he said at last, very deliberately raking his gaze over Thor's body - every inch of him, from head to toe - and then dismissing him with all the disgust he could manage, half turning away.

And just like that, there was a hand on his shoulder, twisting him back, and those blue eyes burned into his with... helpless sincerity.

"You are my brother," Thor repeated, "and I love you. Where you came from matters not."

No, Loki found himself thinking numbly, he had been wrong before. Those words had not burned him. _These_ did, scalding him like a brand that would never fully heal.

He lifted one of his chained hands to tangle in the fine cloth at Thor's neck, slowly twisting it round his fingers, and shoved the other man back as hard as he could. "Then you deserve every minute you suffer for it," he spat.

Thor struggled with it, of course. "I do not - _understand_ you," he said softly. "You have reason to be angry at our father, our mother, and at me - but why does it change so _much_ for you?"

That he could even _ask_. "You are so unbelievably thick," Loki sneered. "Do you know what I _am_, Thor? I'm a _monster_. A monster that the King of Asgard took home to be a _bargaining tool_ with _other_ monsters. Do you think there is a single man, woman, or child in this kingdom who would welcome me here? Do you think there was ever a moment in my life that wasn't a complete falsehood? Odin is the _real_ liesmith." He broke off, laughing, and it did not sound quite as it ought; too strained, as if at any moment it might crumble beneath him. "And you're coming along nicely in his footsteps!"

"I know where you're _from_!" This time, Thor did not lower his voice again. He was starting to use volume in lieu of argument, as he always had when they were children, and even that stung. "I know of what you are capable, Loki, both good and ill."

Did he, then. Did he really. Loki smiled, slow and smooth. He took one step towards the other god, then another, watching as Thor stilled, watching the uncertainty - and _hope_, he rather thought, spilling out of those guileless eyes.

When they were close enough to touch, he stopped. "So," he murmured, "how long did you intend to keep up this madness of yours, Thor Odinson?"

Again he lifted his hands, but this time only to brush his fingers over the fine, soft hair lining Thor's jaw. The silver chain dangled between them, and Thor held very still. Held his breath, perhaps.

"How long can you pretend to look past what I've done and keep calling me your brother?" Loki kept his voice low, low and sweet and gentle. "How many precious mortals do I kill before you draw the line?"

Thor stiffened under his hands, and for a fraction of a second, Loki thought - but no, of course not. Not that easily. _Never_ that easily. He could already see Thor rallying to drive out the echo of his words, and when he spoke his voice was still firm, still strong, almost unwavering. "You'll have to kill me to stop the words from passing my lips."

Almost, but not quite. Loki nodded, mock-thoughtful, and trailed his fingers lower still, until his thumbs came to rest over the knot in the other god's throat. Then he whispered, "How about just - one - precious mortal?" and dug in with his fingernails, because it would be so easy to kill her and he would enjoy it _so much_.

And just like that, Thor's hands were on his own, the grip tight enough that Loki could feel his bones grinding together but still - restraining, not ripping his hands away, not ripping _him_ away. At last he had found his breath, but now it came too fast. "There is no atrocity you could commit that would undo _fact_." There was pain in his eyes, and not, Loki knew, from the scratches. "I think you are the one who is quick to cast that bond aside. All because I no longer see myself as the center of all nine realms?"

_Almost_. Loki let him have the hands, if he wanted them so much. "You know, I killed a Midgardian in - what was it, Germany, I think," he said, his voice carefully light. "I sliced his eye socket apart with a lovely machine right in the middle of a gallery, and the screaming was... _wonderful_." The laugh bubbled out of him, high and so slightly too thin. "Maybe something more special for your _consort_, though, I think."

It should have culminated in violence, in Mjolnir being summoned to Thor's hand and everything shattering all around them. He could _feel_ the violence in the air between them as sure as any magic, could almost taste the heat of the blood they did not share rushing beneath the other god's skin, and he was so _ready_ for it, would have just _laughed_ through the pain because at least then-

-but instead, the grip on his wrists went slack.

"I wish you would not speak this way," Thor whispered, and the only pain that came was his.

Loki let his smile fall, ever so slightly, and felt his heart's beat slow again.

How - disappointing.

Where, he wondered, was all the wrath? All the fire and great passion? Instead of the blackened skies and torrential rain, all he found when he looked into Thor's too-open, too-blue eyes was sadness.

Oh, sadness could certainly be sweet. He had wanted that, too. But it was so little _fun_ without the fury.

He drank it in a moment longer, just to remember it for later, and then murmured, "Do you love me still, Brother?"

"_Yes!_"

It was an explosive whisper, fierce for all of its quiet, and then Thor released him, hands balling to fists at his sides, and looked away.

Silence.

Loki supposed he should have been satisfied with that; pleased, even. He wasn't. He took the step between them, not entirely willingly, and brought his arms around Thor instead.

He knew the other god might take it as an apology. Perhaps, on some level, he had even meant it as one. In spite of himself, in spite of _everything_, somehow he still didn't like - didn't _want_... this.

Seconds passed. Then he felt Thor's powerful arms around his waist, crushing him close, and there were words, half muffled by his shoulder.

"I will never stop. _Never_."

Loki might have been amused by them, so much conviction so suddenly, except that then Thor turned his head and pressed a kiss to his throat with that same soft intensity.

Casual and thoughtless, no doubt. Meaningless, even, except that it wasn't meaningless at all, except that he could _feel_ the warmth there, the gentleness and affection pulling a deep desperate ache out of him, and then he wanted nothing so intensely as to wrench his _brother's_ arms from his waist and scream. Loki drew a steadying breath and cinched his eyes shut, but they were burning. _Damn you,_ he thought. _Damn you and damn me for having this maddening weakness to you._

He took some pride then in the sound of his own voice, hushed but perfectly steady and free from malice; almost resigned. "Then you had best hope that I never leave this tower." Because it was going to be so very, very hard on Thor when he _did_ eventually escape to tear that whore limb from limb.

But of course Thor only laughed, low and wry, because he could not hear those thoughts. "I suppose I will take what I can get, on that score." His grip tightened ever so slightly.

"You're going to smother me," Loki pointed out, but idly, making no real effort to move. After a moment, he even lifted a hand to the back of the golden god's head, his fingers combing lightly through soft blond hair.

Another laugh, rougher this time. It rumbled through him, and Loki felt as much as heard it. "You'll just have to bear with it." There was the barest beginnings of languor in his voice.

"Typical," Loki said, and let his eyes slip shut, just briefly, against everything. "It doesn't take much to please you, does it?"

That, at least, had not changed. The simplest of gestures had always been capable of bringing Thor out of his deepest sulk, so like a child with his short attention span and mercurial moods.

"You have a way of making even small victories come only at the price of great struggle," Thor murmured, but he sounded only fond.

"Such things you say. Have I not gone out of my way to make you happy? To steal you Idunn's golden apples when you were down? To make a petty Muspelheim emissary who slighted you look like a fool in front of the court?"

Nothing particularly recent, but all true enough. He fancied he could feel the smile against his shoulder, hear it when Thor said amiably, "You have." Finally, he eased back, though he still stayed close enough to keep his hands firmly on Loki's shoulders. "You have always had a ready hand for me, Brother."

The smile on his face was like _the sun_. "And you always had a a big heart," Loki told him. "Too big."

Which made the smile dim so that it was almost possible to look directly at it. Almost. "Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that you were not consulted on the day of my making." Thor squeezed his shoulders, all but imploring. "I love you. Whether you wish it or no. And I will fight for you."

It held the cadence of a promise.

Loki lifted his hands and gave the most eloquent shrug he could manage with them bound, and the chain rattled loudly. "What happens now is beyond the power of either of us to control. I would not get too attached to dreams of a happy future, were I you."

Thor met his gaze unwaveringly. "We shall see," he said, so firmly that it brooked no further argument. "But I have no intention of relinquishing my plans so easily."

The softest emphasis: plans, not dreams.

"Ah," Loki said, "there is the king-to-be. I knew he must yet be in there somewhere." Only the finest traces of sarcasm, and if Thor noticed them at all he seemed content to pretend otherwise. "I suppose there's no indication yet of how long I'm to be kept waiting like this."

"It's only the first day. You know how the first day is."

He did. It amused him again, just a little, to think that now Thor did as well, but he tucked that amusement away. "If you have no impression of speed, then it will likely be some weeks, even months."

Months spent here, alone, in chains, and with nothing to do... He could craft the image easily with one sorrowful look around the beautiful lie of his beautiful cell.

"...It might, yes," Thor agreed, with the faintest edge of wariness.

Loki gave him a few seconds more to fully envision the sad, lonely scene, then turned to face him again with, he knew, just the right seeming-hesitation. Close to, but not quite daring to be, hope. "I could - use a few books."

And then he watched as that wariness melted away, almost completely. Thor even released his shoulders, if slowly. "Of course! What books?"

"Anything is better than nothing," Loki assured him, perfectly grateful. "Myths, prophecies, journals, treatises on basketweaving... Whatever you unearth in the library. Though," he added wryly, "you can keep theorem on interdimensional rifts if you find any, I'm already quite familiar."

Because obviously he wouldn't be allowed any magic texts, would he.

And - _there_. Thor's lips turned up a tiny bit.

Loki matched it, brought a hand up to flick back an errant piece of hair, and then glanced at his nails. "Oh, and my nail paint, if it's not too much trouble."

The scrapes and bruises he could accept, but naturally he was concerned about the state of his nails. The Chitauri had had little patience for such luxuries, and having been flung repeatedly into and _through_ concrete had not been kind to his cuticles.

And wasn't it just like him, to worry about something like that in a moment like this?

Thor followed his gaze, and he watched the small smile flicker, because apparently this was less funny, but he was quick after that to say, "You shall have it, Brother. Anything you ask for, in fact - within reason." An intelligent provision, but for the way his eyes lingered on the petty injury.

Exactly as intended, and - troubling, too.

"Casualties of war," Loki reminded him with a faint smile. "The victor is supposed to celebrate."

"I _do_ celebrate," Thor said at once, quiet again but also steadfast. "It is only that I do not celebrate the casualties."

Nonsense, and worse than that. He shook his head and turned away. "Is that how you really feel? Or is that how you feel because the casualties happened to be between us?" The brother he loved _so well_, as he kept saying.

Behind him, Thor was silent for a moment; thinking, was he? And then he said, as if every syllable came at a terrible cost, "I do not know, truly. This was... my first war."

"Your first war since you've changed," Loki corrected him, and was very conscious of the way his fingers rolled and clenched on open air without his express consent. How he longed to tear down that new human shell, to bring out the _real_ Thor, the man he hated and loved and whose horrible gravity he could not seem to escape. "-It wasn't long ago that you would never have removed that muzzle."

The golden god pursed his lips ever so slightly, but somehow met Loki's eyes steadily. "I would always have removed it. But I am certain I would have done other things that I would have regretted."

"But not here. Not now," Loki pressed. It was difficult even to look at him; like gazing into a warped mirror. "This is weakness."

"Loki..." In his face, his voice, there was something - something very like... pity. "I am not ashamed of not causing injury I cannot take back, Brother."

"How unfortunate, then, that the people we love should be so incompatible," Loki said, fine and soft. "You, smitten with an Asgardian Aesir Loki who never existed to return to you, and I, with the man that I grew up alongside, whose memories we both cherish but whose nature you despise."

He started to turn again, but this time Thor caught his cheek and guided it back. Then there was nothing but the imploring blueness of his eyes.

"Stop turning away from me," he said. No: _begged_ was the more appropriate word. "I will admit that I have changed, but it is not this horrific thing from which you must hide your face!"

"So easy for you to say!" Loki snapped. "You came home with everything you ever asked for or wanted, feeling like you had this revelation, this _evolution_ of spirit, _wiser_ and _better_ and more _worthy_." He was breathing harder now, his words coming quick. "But _my_ life was in ruins, and everyone I'd ever cared for had either lied to me or _evolved_."

He made to twist away, break the grip, but it only tightened and then Thor's _other_ hand was on his arm, snaring him further.

"I would have thought you would welcome a little more thought from your brother!" the other man protested. "Was it not you who chided me again and again for not thinking things through enough?!"

It rose in his throat, wild, screaming, shouting itself hoarse. _No, you imbecile, that's what you needed _me_ for, why would I have wanted you to become so perfect you didn't need me anymore!_ Loki clamped down on it, struggled to regain control over his breathing, and managed a slightly thin, "You call this thought? Simpering after mortals, coming to their beck and call, weeping over your enemy's wounds?" before his voice gave out in a hiss. "Where is the man who was admired for his valor and charisma? Where is the man the people cheered for when he was proclaimed the heir to Odin's throne? Where is the man who was feared on the battlefield, the man who acted on his convictions, the man who would always protect Asgard with force and fury? Where is _my brother_?"

He could feel the fingers on his arm, his cheek, go rigid. For a moment, Thor only stared at him, desperation seeking something that had never been there in his face, and then - then abruptly he was being drawn in, locked tightly to the blond man's chest, his wrists now even more hostage than they had been before in the grip of a golden god, and...

Loki really had thought he was ready for anything in that moment. When he felt stubble and a brush of lips against his forehead, he could not stop his body from trembling.

"He is here," Thor told him, thick and rough and low and right against his skin. "Here with you. Simpering or otherwise."

Distantly, he thought he heard a tension there, something churning just beneath the surface, but it was difficult to make out. Difficult to think clearly enough.

"-My books, and my nail paint," Loki said at last, as coolly as he could. "I have no other use for him."

But somehow Thor had strengthened with this; leeching it out of him, perhaps, because he felt intensely weak. "You are a liar, Silvertongue. You want many things from me."

Loki felt the scowl shaping his lips numbly. "Oh, so _now_ you understand me so well?"

"I never said that." Thor was _smiling_. "I just manage, on occasion, to not be thoroughly blind."

"What glorious news!" Loki spat. "Is it time for Ragnarok again already? Pray, let me loose, and I'll go fetch my kinsmen from Jotunheim."

He did not quite see the other man move, only the setting of his jaw and then - then he felt the wall as it struck his back so _hard_ he very nearly saw stars, Thor's heat pinning him to it and Thor's voice closer to a snarl than it had been since he fell. "_They are no kin of yours!_"

But the pain lasted only an instant. The surprise was what really held Loki's tongue.

"...What charming denial you labor under, Thor," he murmured.

His brother - for this _was_ his brother - could not immediately respond. He was breathing too heavily for speech. Then he said, "You share blood with them. Nothing more."

Loki stared back at him, and wet his lips. Very well, then. "Oh, but I assure you," he said, so softly, "it isn't. Just use that miraculous gift of thought that you claim to have now." He could not do much to distance himself in this position, but he could tilt his head back. "Have you not heard the stories of accomplished Jotun sorcerers? Illusions are said to be a particular talent of theirs."

Some weapons could not be used without also wounding oneself. They were to be avoided in all but the most dire circumstances - but, on occasion, the sacrifice was worth it.

Unfortunately, this was not to be one of those occasions, as Thor's eyes only narrowed. "That wasn't my meaning, and you know it!"

How satisfying would it have been to strangle him. "It's _in_ my blood, you fool!" Loki snapped. "Who I am, how I am, all of it. I can never escape being Jotun!" His own voice was a razor blade. "And you and I share nothing but memories of people _neither_ of us are anymore."

Again, he felt Thor's hands digging into him, fingernails all but biting through his loose robes. Again, there was tension in the golden god, and closer to the surface this time. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with it. "...We _are_ those people, whatever you may think of me or yourself."

"_Prove_ it," Loki said at once, low and deliberate. Challenging. "Prove to me that you have not changed beyond my recognition. That perhaps-" There, he stopped himself, faltering. What was he saying? Thor's madness was catching. He looked away, but there was no point in not finishing what had already been revealed: "I could yet go back."

There was a hitch in Thor's breathing, and then it sped again, rapid and sultry against his skin, and that... that was not comfortable. Suddenly, Loki found himself very aware of all the places where they touched, of a familiar scent so thick in the air all around him that he could nearly taste it, and his own breathing grew short and thin.

"And get off me," he added with as much of a huff as he could put into it, bringing his arms up to push with what little leverage he had.

But his attempt seemed only to spur Thor to action, the grip on his arms tightening again, and - and then he was being wrested from the wall, and this time Thor's lips found his _mouth_ with a startling force.

There had been the beginnings of a complaint on his tongue, Loki felt sure. Something about all of this manhandling. Something truly scathing. He couldn't remember the words; he couldn't remember how to _form_ words. It would have been difficult, at any rate, to hear his own voice over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He had not - expected this, but oh.

_Oh,_ it was so very much what he wanted.

And just like that his mind was working again, _racing_, swifter even than his so-loud heart. What now? What should he do? What would happen, if he allowed himself-

If he took advantage...

Thor hadn't moved away yet, still pressing him to the wall, still kissing him, but it was only a matter of time and that knowledge made his fevered mind work all the faster. He pulled his hands free and reached up, fingers knotting in the cloth at the other man's collar to keep him there, and with wide-open eyes he searched what he could see of that familiar, newly-alien face for something - anything.

Was this what had simmered beneath that still surface? And what _was_ this? Love? Lust? Some clumsy attempt to manipulate him? Well, it wouldn't work; of course it wouldn't work.

Or, and Loki could not help but notice the rising edge of hysteria in this new thought, had someone badly misinformed him at some point (wouldn't that have been _just like him_) and so he thought that pinning his brother up against a wall and kissing him until both of them were thoroughly out of breath with chapped lips and rushing blood was completely normal?

No, those were not the most important questions, forget them. What he _really_ needed to know, the only thing that _really_ mattered, was how could he use this. How could he turn this trap (was it a trap?) to his own advantage.

All of these things, he sought in Thor's face.

But there was nothing there, nothing but openness and the faintest tension as he finally, a moment later, broke the kiss - to pant softly against Loki's mouth and then to turn his head so that he could press hot lips and rough stubble to his throat, and _oh_ he could not quite stop the shudder that passed through him at that.

This was - this would be fine, he told himself. If he could not presently decide what his ulterior motive for doing this was just yet, then - well - he would _think_ of it sooner or later. His fingers slipped loose from the collar of his brother's fine shirt and sank instead into soft blond hair, pulling him closer, and still he could scarcely believe it when he felt Thor surge against him, the scant distance between their bodies sealing so completely that they were almost melted together. Thor lifted his head, kissed him again, so very much on his mouth, and his lips were shut but - only just.

On the edge of the precipice.

The thought made the cold pulse of his blood warm eagerly; maybe too eagerly.

Loki pushed back into the kiss, slow for the first second, sweet, and then he parted his lips coaxingly, hands in the god's hair and a stroke of tongue to guide him deeper. Do it, open to it, _give into it_, even just for an instant. _Let me see._

To Thor's credit, he did hesitate - the surface trembling - but then it rose up in him, burst all at once, and suddenly there were hands on Loki's hips, an answering tongue in his mouth, and he welcomed all of it, arching his back to press yet more firmly into the other man's powerful body, curling his own tongue to meet his brother's and drawing it, drawing him, deeper.

How strange it was, he reflected as he tangled his fingers tightly in Thor's hair. One little thing gone his way, and suddenly he felt - completely rejuvenated.

If he could not stop himself from falling, he could at least ensure they fell together.


	3. Into Fire, Into Darkness

This was not - what he had meant to do.

They were brothers. He _loved_ Loki. He had wanted Loki to _know_ that, feel it, have it seared into him if necessary. Anything it took to prove this, anything it took to make their family whole again. That was all. He had never wanted - had never so much as _thought_ about doing anything like...

It had only been a kiss. Harder and more desperate than anything he had pressed upon Loki in the past, but still only a kiss.

Except that then Loki rolled beneath him, then there were fingers in his hair, and when he felt his brother's tongue flicker against his lips-

An old instinct had made him pause; Thor could not have named it, in that moment. A thousand years of memories, a thousand years to learn to be wary whenever Loki wanted anything, for any reason, from anyone. But he hadn't been able to hold onto it.

Somehow his hands found Loki's hips, somehow he had turned his head to pry his brother's mouth open, and then the kiss was nothing like they had ever shared, and it felt - it shouldn't have felt - so _good_. His brother's lips and teeth and tongue crushed to his, their bodies cleaved together, and then Loki drew on his tongue and Thor felt it _deep_ in his belly, visceral response he should never, never, never have had to bloodkin.

_But we aren't,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

And that, more than anything else, was what made him wrench back just enough to break the kiss.

Neither of them spoke, and the sound of his own breathing slowly filled his ears. Ragged. Hungry. He had never been so aware of his own skin, every inch of it awake and _electric_. Thor knew he needed to pull away, but the thought was fuzzy, unfocused, and he hesitated. He did not - want to. Letting go of Loki now would have been... he wasn't sure, could not quite think clearly enough to be sure over the pounding of his own heart, the throb of blood in his ears, and...

Dimly, Thor realized that he was - aroused, that he could feel that same pulse between his thighs, that _Loki_ must feel it with their bodies pressed so tightly together, and this was _wrong_, so horribly wrong, he had to stop, had to leave this tower and perhaps never come back-

-but then he felt Loki's fingers tightening in his hair, and suddenly Thor was aware of his brother, too, breathing roughly. Chest heaving. Aware of his brother's - _response_ to this, jutting warmly into his belly. Then Loki opened his eyes, slowly, and their bright green was glossy but clear, with none of the confusion he felt in them; none of his desperate shame.

"Don't stop now," Loki said, and it was so soft, so faintly husky, but each word carved deeper and deeper until his brother's voice was so far beneath his skin he could feel it in his _bones_. When Loki shifted against him, hip dragging over hip, it was all he could do to clench his teeth on the groan.

He meant to draw back again, further this time. He wasn't sure whether he'd managed it. They still seemed so close, Loki's scent all over his skin, Loki's slender body rising up between his legs. His vision had gone dark around the edges, and it was difficult to focus on anything but the swell of his own hot blood. "Loki..." It should have been a protest, but even to his own ears it sounded only raw and urgent.

So he shouldn't have been surprised when Loki instead tightened his grip, held him in place, and said in a voice that was breathless with want and _vibrant_ with pleasure, "Stop your thinking, fool. There's no harm in this."

The words went through him, like a knife, like so many of his brother's words had that night - only this time there was no pain, only a heady sense of relief.

_No harm?_

Thor had never wanted so badly to believe anything in his life. His skin, his blood, was singing with the nearness, the pressure of another body against his; it had been - such a long year, since he had promised himself to...

And that thought should have quelled him, should have at least _dulled_ the rush of blood in his veins or cleared his vision a little, but even her _name_ seemed hazy, distant as a dream while Loki's every smallest shift, every hushed word, made him ache.

This was not a fight he would win.

He could not seem to catch his breath, but Thor reached up and caught his brother's jaw instead. "I _do_ love you," he said in a rush. He needed it said. He could not let himself go, let himself give into this, without saying it. He hoped Loki knew he meant it. Because if his brother was wrong, if nothing like this could _ever_ be harmless - he wanted those to be his last words on the matter, before he gave in to the temptation of Loki's parted lips and so-slightly cool skin, surrendered to the carnal intensity of unthought.

He thought Loki might have paused, then, at his words; but if he had it was still only a moment before the other god's arms wound yet more tightly around him, dragging him closer, dragging him under, and he couldn't mind. Even when Loki bit him, almost hard enough to split the skin, he couldn't. All Thor knew was his own hands on his brother's hips, wrenching him up higher on the wall so that he could duck his head and press his lips again and again to the smooth soft skin of jaw, throat, ear, all the flesh he wanted to touch and taste. He felt Loki lifting his legs, hooking them over his hips, and then - then _grinding_ against him, damn.

"Haah..." Loki tipped his head back, exposing more of his neck, and the sound of his voice was a shuddering purr that drove the last remnants of thought from Thor's mind. "_Yes_."

Thor knew there were hands at his back, clever fingers moving deftly to unlace and unfasten his ornamental tunic, and then the feeling of bare skin as his brother pried the garment from his body, but it did nothing except spur him on and he found his teeth baring against his brother's skin. Another grind, his this time, and as his vision swam all he could think was, _How can it feel so _good_, even just like this-_

Vaguely he was aware of shifting back at some point, just enough to let his brother shove the tunic back over his head and shoulders, but he was much more intent on Loki's body, his own kisses sharp and starving as he went from throat to collar bones, and then Loki's clothing began to be in _his_ way and only a whisper in the back of his mind to be careful (a whisper meant for someone else, but he could not quite think who) kept him from rending the fabric in frustration.

It was the only shred of reason he seemed able to keep hold of.

Loki's laughter was ticklish on his skin. "I would lend my efforts," he murmured, "but - I fear it may be a pointless endeavor." As he stroked his fingers through Thor's hair, Thor felt the silver chain at the nape of his neck, so cold on his hot skin.

He met his brother's eyes, and they were lidded, the green dark with anticipation and amusement and lazy curiosity even though they were both still so entangled and he could _feel_ the other god's desire.

_What now, Brother?_ He could hear the words as surely as if Loki had spoken them, finely taunting. Would he tear the clothing or remove the chain or stop, here, and end this madness now.

The choice was obvious. What he had to do was clear. And just as surely, he knew he would never be able to, not with this fire consuming everything in him.

So instead, Thor fisted his hand in his brother's tunic and yanked it up, above his ribs, over his head; and then down, over his shoulders, over his arms, until the fabric was bunched around the manacles. A double binding for his brother's wrists. Blood pounded in his head as he ducked to kiss the pale expanse of so-slightly cool skin, bone, slender muscle, and he heard himself saying in an alien voice, "I will - manage, somehow."

More laughter, so breathless. "You had better keep up with me," Loki said, and then he arched his back against the wall and they were rubbing together and he was _gasping_ at the contact, even through their clothing.

Thor shuddered again, and this time it felt as if it went deep, deep down to the very core of him. He ratcheted back in once more, pinned Loki to the wall behind him, and in quick sharp movements pulled his brother's trousers down over his hips to bare his brother's need. He was aware of Loki bracing himself on his shoulders, warm breath feathering unsteadily through his hair, and then with blind fingers he found...

The flesh was startlingly _hot_ beneath his fingers, and so very hard. He could feel the slickness of his brother's seed, smeared at the tip. Thor curled his fingers slowly - around it, and his own body gave a sympathetic throb.

That little voice in the back of his head was whispering again to be careful, but Loki's response - Loki's _hiss_ of barely-restrained pleasure and the way he rocked his hips eagerly into the grip, Loki's voice saying urgently, "Ah, _yes_, touch me, I want your hands... all over me, please," and Loki's teeth on the shell of his ear - drowned it out until he could no longer make sense of the words.

His body was not his own. One hand on Loki's ass leashed him closer, and there he rubbed between his brother's legs and into his own wrist, grinding quickly with his attention torn between each burst of pleasure and the higher, fuller moan in his ear as Loki met it, as Loki spread his legs wider, as Loki invited more of everything, but it was loudest when he scraped his teeth over the other god's throat.

And still Thor found himself regretting that he only had so many hands.

It was almost enough, just like that. Almost enough just to touch him, to pump his brother's cock with firm strokes and listen to his eager, hungry response.

Almost. Except that then Loki turned his head just enough, sucked Thor's earlobe into his mouth and curved his tongue around it and shoved back with another groan. "It's..." Breathless and right against his damp skin. "It's driving me crazy not to be able to touch you, hnn... I can't even - return this wonderful favor, make you feel this good..."

_Almost_ was not good enough, not for the desperate pulse of heat that sent right between his legs, swelling him so hard it hurt.

Thor's palm and fingers were sticky now from his brother's seed and his own sweat. He used it to glide them faster and canted Loki's hips back, higher. "Perhaps," he uttered, very thickly, "I like driving you - crazy."

"Perhaps - I like it too."

The words twisted in his belly, deeply and darkly appealing, and Thor cinched his eyes shut but could not ignore the sudden tremor in his hands as he tore at the leather pants that were all that remained of his own clothing. He needed them off, needed them out of the _way_, needed air on his skin and Loki's skin on his skin. Still he struggled to reply, breathless: "That sounds - very - unfortunate for... you."

When he lifted his head, he found that his brother's eyes were fixed on his hands, where they worked to unlace the front of his pants, and so intent was his stare that Thor half expected to feel it like heat. Then Loki purred, "I... disagree," and it was all Thor could do not to finish right there.

"How - like you," he managed thickly, and then they were both naked and all he wanted was to rut against his brother's hip and squeeze his brother's cock until pleasure streaked them both.

He was rewarded with another low moan from Loki's swollen lips, but after a few more grinds he felt a flicker of tongue against his ear, heard a shallow intake of breath. "Do you - need some help, Brother?" Loki asked, sickly-sweet. "If you can't - figure out the way of it, I can teach you..."

And in spite of everything he thought he had learned over the last year, _that_ stilled him; that rankled, ever so slightly. It had been close to five hundred years since last he'd left a woman anything but satisfied, and as far as he knew _Loki_ had never even...

He would make his little brother pay for this, so help him, but now was not the moment. Thor took a breath. "Do it, then," he said, taut but still betrayingly ragged at the edges. "Do it and be done with it."

To his credit Loki did not laugh, but there was dark amusement again in his eyes as he leaned back, as he slung his bound arms behind Thor's neck and steadied himself against the wall and - and shifted his hips, bringing himself easily and unerringly into place so that Thor had to hiss at the flare of sensation, the sensitive tip of his cock dragging over...

"_In_," his brother told him, so heated that though Thor glanced up sharply he already knew this was no game.

Loki wanted _this_, as surely as he had wanted any of it.

So Thor sucked a breath in through his teeth, shut his eyes tightly, and just - shoved up, not nearly as hard as he could have but still firmly, trusting that his brother's body would yield and that somehow this would make them both

feel

_damn_, damn, damn it was so tight, so hot, _gripping_ his flesh, stealing his breath, stealing what little had remained of his ability to think with raw friction. He was very dimly aware of Loki kissing him again, hungrily, and one or both of them groaning into the other's mouth; just as dimly aware of Loki breaking the kiss again with a hissed, "_Yes_..." and then he had his arms beneath his brother's legs, lifting him, adjusting their positions mindlessly so that he would have more leverage when he drew back and slammed home again, sheathing himself in Loki's body and driving them both powerfully into the wall.

In, in, in, in. Their bodies locked together, his brother's voice breaking with each heady thrust, his brother's fingers cutting into his shoulders - his brother's tight channel shivering around him, his brother's hot breath panting against his cheek...

Already Thor felt the strain, had to struggle to leash himself in so that he could keep - going, had to fight against the white that wanted to swallow his vision with pleasure and release.

It was - it was so good, _too_ good, too tight rasping perfectly over the skin of his cock, and Thor shuddered, flushed, because just as sweet were the rising sounds of Loki's need.

In, in, inininin, fast and faster, blinding-

And then his brother stiffened against him, arched away from the wall, and with a desperate hitch of breath came, thick and plentiful, painting his belly and their chests, and Thor himself went very still, breathing wetly, drinking deeply of it.

He had held on for so long to the face of a sheer cliff, nothing to aid him but his own tenacity, and when Loki pulsed one final time and then shuddered, easing, parted lips for his husky breaths, Thor found that he had little choice but to let go.

Again, there was nothing between them but the sounds of each struggle for air. It took Thor what felt like an eternity before the ardor, already draining away, faded enough to let him think.

_I should... apologize._

The thought drifted to him hazily, and - immediately Thor decided against it. No. It brought a slow flush to his face but if he believed nothing else his brother ever said to him, then he believed this: Loki had wanted that. As much as _he_... but even just thinking those words made him feel sick with shame.

By the Nine, what had he done.

Then Loki shifted beneath him, let out a contented breath, and everything seemed - clearer, somehow.

Thor mastered exhausted muscles and pulled back just enough to feel himself slip from his brother's body. The friction on his sensitive skin was just as distracting as his numb, distant horror; that it made the other god gasp tipped the scales in its favor.

"...Loki," he murmured, and had no idea what else to say.

Lazily, his brother opened his eyes. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, before he asked, very simply: "Are you going to put me down now?"

Thor blinked, and - realized abruptly that he still had his brother pinned to the wall, thighs bent and spread. Slowly, he took another step back, lowering Loki until he could get his own feet under him again. It was blind work, because he could not look away from Loki's face.

At last he managed, "...Are you - all right?"

That prompted a faint chuckle, though Thor could see his legs were not quite steady under him. "When have I - ever given you a true answer to that question, Thor?"

The use of his name sounded... deliberate. Not brothers any longer. And that, more than anything else, made Thor's chest tight.

He drew breath. It shivered out of him again with no words spoken. He tried again. "I maintain... hope." But it came out heavier than he had intended. So true, and in so many ways.

"Ever the optimist." Loki straightened, carefully, and somehow even with his lips swollen and his skin splattered with the evidence of his own pleasure and his thighs streaked with the evidence of Thor's, he was relatively composed. He tilted his head, as if in thought, and - smiled.

"I am... well."

Thor wished he could have believed it. He swallowed another breath, and then could hold his peace no longer. "It isn't... This isn't-"

_This is not why I brought you home!_ Even in his mind, the words were unconvincing. _It _is_ love, not only rutting._ How could he ever expect Loki to believe that now?

Loki seemed to study his face. "Are you going to apologize for this?" he asked patiently.

This time, Thor hesitated, but there was still no denying that part of it. The part where his brother - his _brother_ - had curled around him and rocked into every thrust and moaned so hungrily in his ear.

He found his lips dry. "...Not for this, no."

"Then I think we understood each other well enough."

With finality.

Thor let his own mouth click shut, and watched from what felt like a very great distance as his brother moved away from the wall. Watched as his brother bent to retrieve Thor's brilliant red cape, struggling only a little with his own tunic still tangled around his wrists. Watched as his brother stood again, crumpled the fine fabric into a mass, and-

Abruptly, he saw what Loki meant to _do_ with it, and then his hand was on the other god's wrist before he could stop himself.

Loki raised his eyebrows innocently, and Thor felt a small swell of embarrassment at his own impulse.

Still an Odinson, wasn't he. Still a Prince of Asgard. Proud and indignant, to think his brother might soil some vestige of his regalia with the seed they had both spent.

"-There are facilities here, are there not?" he asked, soft, as if with softness he could take back that moment. "To bathe?" Given the tower's original purpose, there should have been.

For a moment, Loki only smiled at him, small and mocking. But he made no move to reclaim his wrist or finish what he had started with the cape, and all he said was, "I cannot use them myself. The chains must be unbound for me to remove what little remains of my clothing."

"Then you won't use them yourself," Thor said at once.

Another impulse, but this idea he warmed to immediately. Yes. They could - no, _should_ share a bath, just as they had when they were children. The only thing missing would be the attendants, for royalty never bathed alone. And it would be... natural. Normal.

Perhaps the world would even right itself from this perilous tilt, before they were all spilled from it into the void.

The smile on his brother's lips widened, if anything, but he lifted a hand and gestured to an adjoining room Thor had not had the presence of mind to notice before. "Of course," he said, and only now did he release the cape in a ripple of crimson.

Like everything else in the northeast tower, the bathing room was inviting and luxurious: white marble and gold, shimmering translucent drapes, high vaulted ceilings. Thor stayed on the threshold, taking in every detail of it, tracing the veins in the marble with his eyes, looking anywhere but at Loki, who moved to kneel beside the long tub and take up the task of filling it.

A dozen golden spouts came to life, and steam hissed from the water quickly, a familiar spiced scent rising into the air.

Otherwise, there was silence.

There would always be silence, Thor realized then. Loki would not permit his apology, and they would never speak of this again. It would be - almost as if it had never happened.

Almost.

All he wanted was to forget, as quickly as possible. To forget the dark desire in his brother's eyes, the goading words and whispered encouragement and the nails, digging painfully into his back. To forget the intensity that had been - so different from anything he had ever shared with fleeting maidens in his youth, or even with Sif, who had scoffed at any effort to be gentle with her. So different from what he'd imagined it would be like with Jane, who he'd intended to...

_Jane_. Thor shut his eyes until they burned. He hadn't-

And then his brother's voice cut into his thoughts smoothly: "If you would?"

Thor opened his eyes again, startled, and was only more so to find Loki upright now, less than a handspan from him, wrists held out in offering. Expecting - needing - his full attention.

It took him a moment to understand; a moment to realize that the running water had fallen silent, that the tub was filled to brimming, and that the only obstacle remaining to their bath was this, a tangle of cloth trapped by silver chains.

Silver chains that were, of course, spelled. Easily put on; not so easily removed. For his other baths, Loki had doubtlessly had someone here to lift the spell just long enough so that he could be helped out of his tunic. A sorcerer - accompanied by several stout warriors, perhaps, just in case.

The elements of the storm came easily to Thor and always had, but... when it came to subtler forms of magic, incantations and _true_ spells, he had never had any particular talent or interest - and even less patience. What his brother had developed so carefully, he had discarded, the same way that so much of Asgard did. He had assumed that someday, when he was old and too feeble to wield Mjolnir with the same strength, then perhaps he would learn the art of _avoiding_ combat.

But the thought of calling for assistance now, so that someone _else_ could cast the spell to remove his brother's chains, made his cheeks burn.

Loki was still waiting patiently, his pale forearms still outstretched, and after a moment Thor took them in his hands, lowering his gaze to the green and black. Though the fine cloth had seen far better days, far better _years_, he knew it as one of his brother's favorite tunics. A tunic which might yet be restored, unless he did irrevocable damage to it now.

For a few seconds more, Thor studied the garment. Then he took a seam between his hands and slowly, carefully, ripped.

Which made Loki sigh, but when he looked up there was also the beginnings of a reluctant smile on the other god's lips. "...Nice work."

Thor felt a surge of relief, and matched the smile. He knew that what he was doing was a poor alternative to removing the chains, that by Loki's standards his inability to work so simple a spell might have seemed pitiful. His brother did not have to compliment him on it; did not have to recognize this for an effort to spare his property instead of an insult or an attack. "I am trying," he agreed, and took some of the insult on himself: "But I do not think I'll ever be a seamstress."

"..._Well_," Loki said, his voice so light, "it does require something in the way of nimble fingers." He cast a pointed look down at Thor's hands on his own.

Now there was the edge of a familiar argument here. Thor smiled a little more and shook his head. "I'm afraid I sacrificed nimble for brute strength," he admitted.

Since he had conceded his brother's usual point, of course Loki had to argue against it. "Afraid, nothing. They are the hands of a warrior," he said staunchly, and Thor felt the other god's fingers curling very slightly over his palms. "As I'm sure Lady Sif will tell you, mending is not the task of a warrior."

Thor stifled a laugh, because she would have, and something in his chest unclenched. "You're full of flattery today, aren't you, Brother," he said, before his mind caught up with his mouth.

The word tasted strange, stranger even than it had sounded in his private thoughts, and he hesitated with the tunic very nearly free, gripped with sudden dread.

But Loki continued to surprise him. He returned without pause, "My brother needed little flattery, especially when it came to his prowess as a warrior," and when the last of the fabric came loose in his hands, Thor let it fall.

His fingers were so numb, he was not sure he would have been able to do anything else.

_I will not be a fool,_ he told himself, hating the words, hating the necessity, hating that he could not believe what he most sorely wished to. _I will not unbind him yet._ But his eyes lingered on the silver length of the chain as Loki reached up to run fingers through his own hair, and the word _yet_ was not the warning it should have been.

"I - appreciate that, I suppose," he found himself saying, and was not quite sure what he was meant to be appreciating.

Loki tipped his head a little in vague acknowledgment, but said nothing, only turned to the bath and sank into the water with a pleased sound, shifting to lean back against the marble wall of it.

Silence again.

This time, Thor did not let himself think, only moved to follow his brother into the water and hoped that its heat would seep into his bones and soothe the deep ache that went beyond muscle. He let himself shut his eyes and listened to the sounds of Loki shifting beside him, the water lapping at them softly.

He could not have said how much time passed before the other god declared in a sigh, "I swear that no one in Asgard appreciates a good bath," but he had relaxed enough that there was no resistance in him to the well of amusement it provoked.

"Why would you say that?" he asked, because it was perfectly ridiculous. _Everyone_ in Asgard appreciated a good bath, even the heartiest of warriors who would later insist they _missed_ the mud and sweat and blood that no longer clung to their newly-cleansed skin.

"There's always crowds, loud conversations and laughter, _wrestling_..." Loki sounded comfortably long-suffering, and Thor listened to the soft splash of water as he brought it up to rinse his face. "You can't get a moment's peace."

"Well," Thor said, because all of that was certainly true, but none of it had occurred to him before. "They _are_ social events. Perhaps you'd enjoy a Midgard bath better," he added, and found that in spite of everything he rather... liked that idea. Loki had seen so little of Earth, in their time there. He hadn't had a chance to learn...

His brother made a dismissive noise. "Yes, I've heard of the custom of 'showering'."

And this, too, was - comfortable. Innocent disdain, with none of the pain - the resentment - that he'd heard on the Bifrost. "They have baths, too," Thor promised him, opening his eyes. "Small tubs in their own homes."

Evidently, that was _not_ a thing Loki had heard of. "How... small?" he asked with a slight frown, skimming one hand thoughtfully down his side, pausing to finger some of his own flesh.

Through the clear, mostly-smooth water, Thor could see a purpling bruise. Some of his merriment drained away.

"-Large enough for a man," he forced himself to reply, "but only just."

Loki grimaced, and Thor wished he could be sure it was only at that thought. "Sounds unpleasant. I think this one is a fair size," he added, with a gesture at the tub around them that could have easily held at least two dozen people.

"It was not the best fit," Thor admitted, slightly wry.

As he watched, Loki found another bruise with his fingers and pressed down on it intently. This one did not appear to hurt him, though the color of it was ugly. "Then I suppose you should relax and enjoy the space provided in Asgard - just about everywhere."

Thor said, "I will make it a point of my time here," and did not lift his eyes from his brother's flesh. How had he not noticed this before? How had he not looked?

There were no cuts, no bruises, on Loki's face, so he had assumed - but those had been shallow, half-healed already by the time they took the Tesseract between them. These bruises were fading, but it had been days now. Days of being a prisoner in Asgard.

Had he been denied healing stones?

It was - preposterous. Even the most vile enemies had their wounds tended to after they were taken prisoner. Thor might have liked to call it high-minded, but he knew it was more than that; there was, after all, no honor to be gained from inflicting pain upon a helpless opponent.

And with his magic bound, Loki _was_ helpless.

The idea that they had left him to heal from such injuries in his own time-

But then Loki drew a sudden sharp breath, and Thor bridled his emotions. There would be time enough later for indignation, for confronting guards and the nobles at the trial and _their father_. For now, he turned in the water and moved to close the distance between Loki and himself.

"Loki," he said, and realized that he'd used this tone a hundred times, a thousand times, as they grew up together. It was the tone of an older brother bringing his younger brother to task. "What was that sound?"

And Loki reacted to the tone exactly as he always had, looking away from him even as he answered sullenly, "Some of your mortal friends leave more impressive marks than others."

Thor caught a breath and held it for a moment. "Some of them have very good aim," he said, but his ire was not for anyone of Midgard. They had been fighting for their lives and their world in the field of battle. _Here_, he was imprisoned, and this was _not_ how Asgard treated its prisoners. He settled his hand over his brother's, a wordless urge to lift it and let him see.

Loki let him move the hand, but said, "I don't need fussing."

"I do not call this fussing," Thor told him absently. He could mostly see it now, and it looked like - a burn. "Stand so that I might see it fully."

His brother did, and Thor thought he said something like, "Well, I shouldn't like to see _that_, then," but could not focus on the words.

The burn spread from just under his rib cage to just above his hip, and all the flesh around the inflammation was bruised. Just the sight of it made his stomach turn.

"...This looks - painful," he said softly.

Loki sighed, as if exasperated. "So am I to expect that with this same injury, you would be mewling in pain?"

"What I would do is hardly relevant," Thor retorted, still not looking up at him, "and does not make it any less painful." Whether or not he would have been too much a proud fool to admit to it, an injury like this...

He did not expect the hand on his neck, or the fingers that gripped his chin and bade him to look his brother in the eye. He especially did not expect the cold expression he found there, or Loki's tight, controlled voice as he said, "You _will_ not treat me as a weakling, Thor Odinson."

Thor faltered despite himself. Was that- Of course that was how Loki saw it. He asked, quiet, "If you saw me wounded, you would not care to look it over?"

"I would-" Loki paused, his eyes shifting briefly from Thor's, then finished swiftly, "-never insult you by concerning myself with the pain of so minor a wound."

Slowly, Thor let himself ease back in the tub, turning away from the burn and all the bruises and all the things he'd done when they were children - all the things Asgard had done to them both - to make his brother say and think such things. "Compassion would not insult me," he said quietly.

_And I did not mean to insult you._

A tap dripped, slowly, and the sound of it echoed off the walls.

Then Loki said in a low murmur, "I didn't seem so hindered by it earlier, did I?"

There was something - strange about the words, the tone. Thor looked at him. "Earlier?" he repeated.

"I think I'm a little offended," his brother said, poison green through his dark lashes. "Was I so forgettable? You were quick enough to manhandle my body to your pleasing, and I never recall flinching."

The world tilted again sharply and Thor could feel the earth giving way beneath his feet. "I did not..." He wet his lips, was only vaguely aware of his own hand tightening against the smooth edge of the bath. "I did not touch you there."

He was mostly sure it was true. It was hard to be sure of anything, with Loki looking at him like that.

"It only takes one unthinking turn to aggravate a wound," the other god said lightly. "But it is a meaningless wound."

And then he slid closer, the water breaking on his shoulders as he reached out a hand to - rest it, on the swell of Thor's bicep.

"It could not stop me from what I want," he uttered, eyes so bright and so dark all at once, like fell fire.

For his part, Thor held very still. He was not sure he could have done anything else. "-No, of course not." Not when his brother was determined, certainly.

Loki's eyes lidded further, gaze slipping from his face to his throat, his chest, all of him beneath the water, all of it lingering. Thor would have sworn he could feel it like a physical touch, stroking over his skin, tracing his pulse beneath it, and his heart was beating so fast he thought-

Then Loki looked away, saying, "Tell me something you liked about the human realm," and for a very long moment Thor could not make sense of his meaning.

The world had begun to right itself, but he felt more off balance than ever.

Thor turned his attention to the water, ordered every muscle to relax, and sank more deeply into the tub. He was more aware than he liked of his brother's thumb as it slipped away, but he could - manage this much.

Something - he'd liked about the human realm. Something harmless, something small, something that would not remind Loki (remind _himself_) of...

Eventually, Thor offered quietly, "They have these things called - 'malls'. They are like a marketplace, only indoors, and with... differing music piping into each individual store. They sell a wide variety of things, more things than anyone could possibly need."

"And," Loki said slowly, raising his eyebrows, "the part that you like about them is...?"

He was comically skeptical. If Thor had been of a mood to laugh, he would have. Instead, he smiled a faint smile and told the water, "Between the floors, to make traveling easier, there were these lifts, of course - but there were also automatic staircases. They are called 'escalators', because they speed your progress considerably." He had figured out that part on his own, and his lips turned up a little higher. "I enjoyed riding them."

Jane had been exasperated, too, just as Loki was now, but amused as well, and they had spent an hour just walking the mall in large circles to ride them.

It was a good memory.

"An automatic staircase," Loki said, sounding exceedingly dubious.

Thor smiled even more. "Yes," he said unabashedly. "The stairs are individual pieces that somehow roll uphill and then flatten out to be fed into a machine and taken back down again, in an endless loop."

Now his brother, too, looked amused. "Is that not the _laziest_ invention ever created? What need could anyone possibly have for stairs that are _easier_ than they already are, by virtue of existing?"

"You have the option of either riding them, or walking up them, which gets you to the floor above more quickly," Thor told him. "I witnessed many who would take heavy bags of purchases and set them on those stairs."

"Blocking those who might wish to walk past them," Loki retorted, "because they have purchased more than they could reasonably carry." But he was _smiling_. "...How many times did you ride these 'escalators'?"

Thor thought back, counting in his mind. "Until I understood them thoroughly," he said at last.

His brother shook his head, but the tone of his voice was teasing. "I think I understand your fascination with Midgard now."

This time, Thor was able to laugh. "They are marvelously inventive," he replied, "to make up for their physical shortcomings."

"...Yes," Loki said. "Necessity is the mother of invention, I believe they say."

Something in his tone had gone off, but when Thor turned to look at him in case his face was more revealing, the other god flicked water in his eyes, and suddenly this bath was exactly what he had wanted it to be.

"What was that for?" Thor demanded, laughing again.

"You deserved it," his brother said aloofly, making an unnecessary show of how unconcerned he was now that his apparent debt had been settled.

How many times had they splashed each other in the baths, how many times had they swam wildly and wet the floors and sent their attendants into a tizzy? Making more than enough noise between just the two of them for one of Loki's detested crowds?

These, too, were good memories.

"Did I, now," Thor said, shifting slowly to his feet, crouched beneath the water.

Loki made an airy gesture. "It's usually been the case," he said.

"I see," Thor said.

And then he threw himself bodily across the distance between them and drove his little brother beneath the bath's still surface in an enormous splash. He had a fleeting glimpse of Loki's bright green eyes widening with shock, the beginnings of a protest, and then they were both underwater and the other god was flailing beneath him. Thor was quick to let him go, rising up out of the water again with a roar of triumphant laughter.

"And _you_ deserved _that_," he said, pushing his drenched hair out of his face.

"You _ox_," Loki said in a gasp as he followed, half-laughing and half-indignant. "How was that even a proportionate response?"

"Who said anything about proportionate, Brother?" Thor replied. He had never been less sorry for anything in his life, and he circled his arms around Loki's slender body, drawing him up against his chest in a headlock.

He might have thought his brother stiffened, then, but in the next instant he was struggling to squirm loose. It did him no good; it never had. "This is ridiculous," he complained breathlessly. "Brute force will get you nowhere, you know that-"

"On the contrary," Thor told him, smiling so broadly that his face ached. "It seems to be getting me exactly where I wanted most to be."

This time, Loki went completely still. His voice was husky when he said, "Then - I have to wonder what you want with me like this."

And that-

That made Thor pause. When he could breathe again, it felt oddly thin. "...I wanted to stop you splashing water at me," he said, and tried not to hear the low, rough edge to his own voice.

"I've stopped now, haven't I?" Loki murmured.

He could feel his brother's chest rising and falling quickly from the brief struggle. He could feel every inch of skin where they touched. And then Loki shifted, shoulder blade dragging across his chest.

Thor breathed in slowly, and did not move. "How am I to know you won't start again, the instant I release you?"

Loki turned. His face was beautiful in profile, lips a carved smile. "If you don't trust me..." Half a purr, half a whisper: "Then you had best set terms for my release."

It should not have sounded the way it did, should not have heated his blood, should not have-

"...What terms do you think would be - fair?" Thor asked, or thought he asked. The words rose from him unbidden, like steam from the bath water, like the spiced scent in the air or the duskier smell of his brother's nape.

"Well..." Loki pressed back against him, lining himself to Thor's body, and it took every shred of willpower he possessed not to gasp. "I think that we can come to terms over something you want..."

He caught his tongue between his teeth, skimmed it slowly.

"Something I am willing to give..."

At some point, his grip had become rigid. Now Thor was aware of it drifting, and somehow one hand found his brother's hip. He could feel the bone under skin and he traced it with his fingers. "That - sounds... most amenable," he admitted, breathing shallowly.

Every word seemed to be pulled from him, drawn by a force he could not resist.

Loki shivered against him, even in the hot water, and tilted his head so that his dark hair fell away from his neck, as much an offering as any a god had ever received. "You know what they say about victors - and spoils," he breathed.

For a very long moment, it almost held together. For a very long moment, they were almost brothers and brothers only.

But the pull was too strong.

Thor turned his head, and then his lips were on his brother's neck, fastened there hungrily, and it felt _so good_ to just give in, so good to just let it fall apart. The other god was immediately responsive, grinding against him, reaching an arm back to circle round his neck and hold him there, an eager sound spilling from his lips, and Thor matched it with a groan of his own.

"This is," he struggled to say, brushing Loki's nearest earlobe with lips and teeth, "not the sort of - spoil to which..." But he could not finish the sentence, could barely finish the thought. He felt feverish, and why shouldn't he, succumbing to this sickness.

Loki's response was rich honey: "Yet, as the future King of Asgard... and its finest warrior... you are entitled." He let his head fall to rest on Thor's shoulder, and Thor could see the muscles in his throat work to swallow. "It is right," he whispered.

_This is right._

No. Thor did not think it was. But he could not stop himself now, and then his hands were between his brother's thighs, fingers curling again around his brother's cock. Loki hissed at the contact, and he tried not to shudder; the organ was _so_ hard. "Even... over trifling victories?"

His brother hummed a little. "If the conquered party - offers it... should it not be so?" He spread his legs under the water, rocked his hips firmly against Thor, the smooth flesh of his ass fitting perfectly against his groin.

All he could say, all he could think, was: "So be it."

The world had tilted again, and he could hold on no longer.


	4. Spinning Webs

The candles had all but burned themselves out, yet the room was not truly dark. Moonlight and starlight and the lights of the third feast in as many nights came in through the tower's wide windows, casting deep shadows. Somewhere out there, Loki supposed, they were celebrating the first day of his trial. Celebrating the beginning of his _end_.

He let his lips curve up, but otherwise kept quite still, listening to the distant music Asgard's people made - and to the sounds of their perfect golden prince, whose clumsy fingers were having some difficulty with the many fastenings of his finery.

First up against the wall, with him pinned and prone; then in the bath, with him on his knees; and finally in the bed, with him on his back and his legs spread wide to take the last of what even so well-favored a god could give in a single night.

_Once_, Thor might have been able to dismiss. A dreadful mistake, a moment of confused passion, a lapse in judgment. Once, he might have even been able to forget, someday if not tomorrow. _Three times_, one right after the other? When each time he had mustered less and less resistance to Loki's charms?

Well. That was not so easily swept away, was it.

The door opened, almost noiseless, but then there was a very long pause, and Loki fancied he could picture Thor lingering dumbly in the doorway, a white-knuckled grip on the latch, attention briefly caught on the bed and on _his_ bared body. Remembering, perhaps.

Cursing himself, and what he had allowed to transpire, almost certainly.

Oh, what Loki would have given then to see the expression on his dearly beloved brother's _face_ - but alas, his part was to feign sleep, exhausted by the pleasure they had taken in each other again and _again_, so that Thor would be able to slip, without another word, from his cell.

So that Thor would have no choice but to slip, without another word, from his cell. Like a guilty man fleeing the scene of his crime.

Loki held still, luxuriating in the rise and fall of his own chest, the cooling sweat, the exquisite ache that unfurled slowly deep inside him, and Thor's hesitation.

There had been little enough of that in him the last time, hands so large and powerful all but forcing him close, dragging his legs up high over Thor's broad shoulders, bringing their hips together and spearing into him again. For all that he had not, apparently, known what men could do together, the golden god had seemed quite _eager_ to mount him again.

_Loki, _yes,_ ah-_

Then, finally, the door clicked softly shut, footfalls faded from the staircase beyond, and he was left alone.

Loki waited a moment more, then rolled carefully onto his back and spent some time simply watching the lights and shadows play their way across the ceiling. He contemplated letting real sleep overtake him, but no matter how steady his breathing had become he could not seem to calm his thoughts. They raced and leapt and sang with all he had managed thus far.

Outside his tower, the celebration continued. Inside it, Loki stretched out his limbs one by one, and levered himself upright to survey the damage he had done.

The main room was only ever so slightly worse for wear. His sheets needed changing, of course: rumpled as they were from where he had dug in his heels and arched his back, their already-deep purple darker still with sweat. He could also see a trail to the bed from the adjoining chamber, places where the long ornate rug was damp and twisted, a silk screen beside the door pulled down by Thor's hand when they had struck the wall in a heated tangle of wet naked flesh.

Nothing he could not easily rectify, bound wrists and sealed spells or no.

Loki slung his legs over the side of the bed and brought a hand up to smooth through his hair, feeling the perspiration at his roots and slicking it back into something slightly more presentable. He looked down at himself, taking stock of all the bruises from battle that had so troubled Thor in their bath, and the _new_ ones from passion that he could feel even now forming over the bones of his hips.

And those was not the only marks Thor had left on him. Loki brushed his fingers down over his flat belly, through the streaks of off-white liquid that were now drying there and on his chest, the mess he had made of himself when that last _fierce_ thrust had sent off sparks behind his eyes. The mess Thor had made of him, now drying on the insides of his thighs and deeper between them.

Which mark, Loki wondered idly, would he more regret?

The journey to his feet was slow and steady, taking care to ensure that his legs would support him. Even so they very nearly didn't, and the languorous ache sharpened _intimately_, his breath catching.

Of course, this was only to be expected. He'd had nothing to prepare him, either time - not against the wall, where he had had to guide Thor into the correct position, and certainly not in the bed, where he had urged _more_ and _harder_ and _now_. There hadn't been time for the sweet oil he usually favored, or saliva, or even a blunt fingertip to help his body adjust after a year of going almost completely without.

And as much as he'd wanted it, Loki almost hadn't _needed_ preparation. Almost.

Not that he regretted the haste now. Oh, no. The raw intensity, the feeling of being stretched too thin and taken too hard - what pain _had_ come... He would have had his brother no other way.

Something in that line of thought tightened his chest. Loki took a moment more to wet his lips, felt the sting of saliva in their cracks, and smoothed his hair again unnecessarily. Then he moved away from the bed and back into the other room.

All things considered, he rather thought another bath was in order.

But it was a pity about the water. Loki knelt at the edge of the deep-set tub and drained it, watching as the surface rippled and swirled. Hot enough yet for a haze of steam, but no longer quite as... clean as bath water ought to be.

Thor's belly had been taut with breath held, his grip bloodless on the edge of the bath, so much effort in every inch of his tightly-coiled muscle devoted to holding _still_ while Loki took him deeper and deeper into his mouth, lips sheathing teeth, suction sweet to pry each trembling sound from the golden god's throat. Thor had come undone for him.

For an instant, the remaining candlelight caught just so on the remaining bath water, and Loki found himself gazing unblinkingly down at his own distorted reflection. Then the water sank another quarter of an inch, and all he could see was the bottom of the tub.

With a careless flick of his wrist, he turned the spigot and began to fill it again.

The best part had been the expression on his brother's face, all that pleasure and urgent need, when he finally gave in and arched away from the edge of the bath, when his hands were suddenly very much alive and fierce in Loki's hair, digging desperately into his scalp and then plunging _down_ his throat. He had very nearly choked.

Loki ran his tongue over his own teeth, tasting them. Thick, hot, copious, and bitter. He'd swallowed it all, and he very nearly hadn't needed to even touch himself, just a quick tight scrape of fingernail over the sensitive tip of his cock enough to spill his seed, too.

_Are we brothers even now, Thor? Everything just like it used to be?_

If anything, there were fewer signs in this room of what had happened in it. Only puddles here and there, the largest from when Thor had thrown himself bodily across the space between them like an overgrown child and then somehow Loki had been pinned to his chest and there was warmth, Thor's rambunctious version of affection, unspoiled and shining and impossible and false, and for an instant...

For an instant, even _he_ could almost have believed it.

But he had taken care of that, oh yes. With words and lips and tongue. With the sinuous steps he had taken from the bath, the lingering look over his shoulder that had drawn Thor from it after only a dazed moment's hesitation.

One last piece of driftwood for the fire.

And the knowledge that Thor would find it difficult, if not impossible, to so much as _look_ at him ever again without remembering - that only a flicker of tongue over his lower lip might bring back these memories, that heat - was deeply, darkly satisfying.

With so much to fuel it, the fire would burn brightly, burn Thor, consume the flesh he had so willingly taken into his body again and again. It might even consume him.

Which was, Loki knew now, what he had wanted from this. He had wanted to _damage_ Thor. It almost didn't matter how. Whatever it took to make the perfect golden prince's perfect golden world crumble around him. Whatever it took to shake that sure security in his perfect golden life. Whatever it took to tear apart this illusion.

Because there had never been any _coming home_, there had never been _forgiveness for his sins_. Never the _open arms_ of a loving family waiting to _embrace him_. Only capture, imprisonment, and eventual execution. That was what Thor had brought him.

The tub was full now so Loki reached for the nearest spigot, twisted it to keep the water from overflowing.

Nothing was just like it used to be. Nothing would ever again be _just like it used to be_. And the sooner his damnable fool of a brother _accepted_ that...

If it had to hurt, so much the better. Even if it hurt him, too.

Perhaps especially if it hurt him, too.

He lowered his legs over the edge of the bath, sliding into the water all at once, but it was so hot that it made his skin itch and somehow before he quite knew what he was doing he had both hands on his face, scrubbing at his eyes, scrubbing at his flesh, and he had to pry them away, find the edge of the raised shelf beneath the water and dig his nails into the marble instead.

Sometimes it struck him like that. Bursts of disgust, of horror, of _what are you doing, stop, fix this before it gets worse_.

Intellectually he knew better, of course. Knew that it was much too late for that. This slope would always be too steep for him. Had been, ever since the Bifrost. No: Ever since he'd sent the Destroyer which had taken Thor's life, snuffed out its brightness, if for only an instant. Or perhaps: Ever since he'd paid Thor that Midgard visit to tell him that their (not his) father was dead from his foolishness and that their (never his) mother could no longer bear the sight of him. Ever since he'd ascended the throne. Ever since a careless touch had opened his eyes to the truth of the lie of his life.

_Every_ step had been one he could never take back, every blow a mortal wound.

And now he was sabotaging one of the few things he had left.

_You are still brothers,_ whispered the tiny voice that even monsters could hear in the back of their minds. _If not by blood, then by rearing. For a thousand years you believed it so and that cannot be wiped away in one. Doing this with him, to him, is wrong. _You_ are wrong. How can you take pleasure from this? What's wrong with you?_

Loki stilled his hands on the shelf of the bath. He felt his teeth cutting a smile deep into his face.

The only difficulty, of course, was that he _did_ take pleasure from it. The thought of reducing Thor from a paragon of heroism to a shamed man hiding a filthy secret, unable to look at his own brother without remembering how it had felt to rut senselessly into his body - perhaps even without _wanting_ that again - tangled in his chest with strained excitement.

This was what he wanted. And it was, in the end, the least of the things that were wrong with him.

If he could never rise to meet Thor, wouldn't bringing him down to his level just as surely make them equals, at long last?

One breath in, then out again slowly. Loki released the shelf and again took cupped water in his hands to begin washing himself in earnest.

The important part, at any rate, was Thor's weakness. Ruining him would have been a _very_ pretty little bonus, if Loki could manage it, but it was not - had never been - the goal. Oh, no. His ambitions were much simpler than that: to play on his brother's newfound _softness_ just enough to earn some small charity, in the form of his nail paint.

For centuries, he had worn his nails black. He liked the way it looked, how it completed his appearance, the edge of something subtly different, unique and distinct in Asgard. Not, especially, in keeping with their _ideals_ of masculinity, but then - he had lost interest in playing that particular game long ago. The traditional Aesir mold was so very at odds with every single aspect of himself that he could not, perhaps, have done otherwise, but it had still been very much his choice. After all, why should he have set aside the hobbies he enjoyed, the skills he possessed, or the lovers he preferred and resigned himself to being less _accomplished_, all for the sake of what the lowest rungs of Asgardian society considered _masculine_.

And accomplished he was. None in Asgard could match his ability as a sorcerer, whether or not they cared to admit it. If he was not handsome, he was beautiful, and if neither suited he could, for at least an hour or two, be anything else he wanted.

The nail paint was the smallest part of it, a pretty surface decoration. And its lacquer would serve more purpose than mere decoration now.

Runes of power, drawn thick and dark, gathered power.

Oh, the silver chains were clever. They numbed his skin, numbed his _soul_, and between their cage and the enspelled tower he could not so much as reach for power of his own, but runes painted on his skin would bring it to him all the same, slipping through the bars. Slowly, perhaps, and faintly, without any ability to guide it properly into his hands - but he only needed a _little_. Just enough to break the enchantment on the chains. And then he would be... free.

Thor would not and could not possibly see it coming. He had never been interested in learning more of magic than was required to wield his own without disaster, and rune magic was even subtler, even _less_ direct, and demanded even _more_ of the scholarly dedication that suited him so poorly. Even if he had not been thoroughly distracted with much, much darker suspicions about how Loki would use what had transpired here tonight against him... Thor would not have thought to question such an innocent request.

And his were, for the time being, the only questions Loki needed concern himself with.

Asgard's gatekeeper was old, even for a god, and while few presumed to know his mind or what he would choose to turn his farseeing gaze upon, Loki imagined that this tower and all that happened within it would have been a focal point. Heimdall, with the knowledge of millennia spent watching nine realms, would almost certainly have known what the nail paint could be used for - and likely he would have had something to say about the rest of the evening, as well.

And of all the Aesir with all their many and varied reasons to loathe him, Heimdall's were more personal than most. Loki did not doubt that, had he been able to see into the tower, this particular scheme would have ended an hour ago or more.

How fortunate he was, then, that magic so often made for a double-edged sword, and that wards like the ones the Allfather had used to drive _every thread of it_ from these chambers would also keep the Watcher's eyes out.

Yes. The plan was fully-formed now in his mind. Everything had fallen into place, or would very soon.

All he had to do was wait. And a few more days would, in the end, be ideal anyway. The last year had taken its toll, robbed him of much of his strength even as his mastery over what he possessed had, by necessity, increased. Another few days of resting and relaxing and having all his meals brought to him would leave him in far better condition. Justice moved slowly, among immortals more than most, so there was no disadvantage in however long it took for Thor to return to him with books and nail paint and festering shame.

And then he would flee, open the secrets routes and take one elsewhere, to another realm. Any realm he liked.

Loki let his eyes close, leaning back against the smooth marble wall of the bath, and pretended to consider.

Muspelheim, perhaps? That would be unpleasant this time of year, as it was at all times of year. As much as he appreciated the ludicrous juxtaposition, as little as he had ever minded heat, _no_.

Svartalfheim? They had _buildings_ and _marketplaces_, he might have lived in relative comfort. If relative comfort were all he sought, it might have suited. Vanaheim, where his sorcery would be commonplace: expected? But he had never liked being either of those things.

Each of them appealed in part for how close they would have been to home - hiding in plain sight, as it were - but naturally that had its risks as well.

And then, of course, there was the opposite approach: to go as far as he could, seek out one of the small ugly worlds that lay beyond Yggdrasil's roots, find a _crevice_ to hide in and wait...

That had its appeal, too, but then there was the risk that he might be _too_ far from Asgard to feel the heavens tremble when they discovered his escape, and that would not do at all.

One by one, Loki went through each realm he knew and found fault. Until at last there were no realms left, save Midgard.

Because of course it had to be Midgard. His pride demanded no less. Those self-proclaimed "Avengers" had coming to them every ounce of trouble he could stir. And once he was through with them, if he had the time...

He might not even _need_ to kill her. He might need only whisper the words into her ear while she lay sleeping.

_Shall I tell you what Thor likes from his lovers, mortal?_

If he had the time.

And he did so enjoy the idea of Thor and the Allfather's fear when they realized where he had gone, and who might now pay the price for their hubris. They had thought they could sit in judgment on him? That chaos could ever be _contained_, let alone humbled and made repentant, let alone _forgiven_?

It was going to be so very easy, and so very satisfying, and there was no part of it that did not please him to imagine.

The only thing his plan hinged on was Thor's honor. Informal though it had been, they both knew he had promised to bring Loki his innocuous things, and wasn't Loki still his dear, beloved brother, the one he wanted so desperately to save?

(He was still that, wasn't he?) (This would not all fall apart for a moment's impulse, would it?)

Of course Thor would not stay away, would not be _able_ to stay away, no matter how destructive coming back would be. And _when_ he came back, well...

Then Loki would see what else he could get away with while on his _best_ behavior.


	5. Choices

Morning came, and for a single perfect moment Thor remembered nothing.

Warm light flooded all his senses, bright and welcoming. Distantly, birdsong, and the chatter of servants. A breeze stirred the hairs on the back of his neck, dried the sweat on his skin, and he lay still, dozing, letting the comfort of his bedchamber chase away the lingering tendrils of what he supposed must have been a bad dream.

Once, Thor would have claimed staunchly that he never had bad dreams, but it would have been a lie. They were rare, but they happened, as they did to everyone. There was one dream in particular which he had dreamt over and over, for the last three hundred years. In it, he sat on Asgard's throne, ready to hear from her people, confident in his rightful place as King, but when the first villager opened his mouth nothing he said made even the slightest bit of sense, and then a second villager stepped forward and he, too, spoke gibberish.

Somehow, in the dream, no one else seemed to notice. His mother nodded patiently, listening with rapt attention until each man had said his piece, and at Thor's elbow Loki whispered, _Oh, yes, you will have to remember this, this is important,_ and then it was time for him to decide whose grievances were most deserving and panic swelled up in his throat because how could he admit that he alone hadn't understood a word anyone had said.

Inevitably Thor had awoken from this particular dream with his heart in his throat, but then he would remember that none of that had really happened, that he was safe in his own bed and not even yet King. That there was time enough still for him to learn the ways of ruling.

But - he knew, even as he opened his eyes - this dream had been something else. It came back to him slowly at first, fractured images unusually vivid for his dreams.

Starlit skin. Hair still damp, an inky black spill on deep purple sheets. Heat, so much heat, and a familiar whisper in the air between them, pitched for his ears alone.

And eyes, such green eyes, burning into him, bright and glassy and fevered.

Loki's eyes.

Loki's parted lips, shining in the low light with his own spit. Loki on his back, pale flesh such a contrast to the dark sheets beneath him, gazing up at him with an expression he could not read, and then those lips stretching wide in a smile full of wicked promise, legs spreading invitingly.

Loki, Loki, Loki, _Loki_, all the images were of Loki, and then the perfect moment was well and truly over because Thor remembered everything with painful clarity and he had not merely _dreamt_ of his brother.

He brought his hands up to his face, pressed in on his eyelids until his vision went red then black then cloudy and gray, but Loki was still there, licked by candlelight in that dark room, and the sickness that welled up in him was intense and physical and not as much of either as it should have been.

What would he have given for nausea, for pure unadulterated horror - to feel as if his awakening this morning had been from some sort of terrible spell. Some magic used on him and Loki _both_, and now with it broken remembering what it had driven them to do could stir nothing in either of them but disgust and regret.

The most indulgent part of this fantasy was that he and Loki might be victims of it together. That, somehow, a humiliating spell could have been cast on him with his brother wholly innocent, and then - Thor's lips turned up bitterly; why not, while he was imagining things that could never be - perhaps they would have even worked together, setting aside everything that had happened over the last year in the name of uncovering a vile plot.

_What charming denial you labor under, Thor._

There was no spell. There was no plot. And remembering what he had done - with no driving but his own - _did_ stir disgust, did stir regret, but those were not the only things unfurling slowly in his belly.

If he closed his eyes, he could see it all so clearly: Loki in the bath with him, water up to their waists. His arm locked immovably around his brother's throat, his brother's body shifting. The slide of wet flesh against his own. The breathy quality of Loki's voice as he taunted, teased, tempted. As he offered. And Thor would have had him right there, exactly like that, twisting him against the wall of the bath and rutting senselessly into his body again, all the skill he had learned over the course of centuries utterly forgotten.

Would have, if cool fingers hadn't settled on his wrist, if Loki hadn't told him huskily, _Not like this,_ to his desperate disappointment.

That had been the worst part, if one part of the night before could be worse than any other. Loki had stopped him, and all he had felt in response had been disappointment.

Until those bottle-green eyes had darkened with a different purpose, clever slender fingers stroking the hair on the back of his arm. Until Loki had licked his own lips and uttered, _I promise Silvertongue is a name well-earned in this fashion as well._

How many times, Thor wondered, could he have ended it? How many chances had Loki given him to leave the northeast tower? How easily could he have saved them both. His brother may have been confined to that room, but _he_ had been prisoner to no one and nothing except his own unnatural desire. His breath came short, rough, and he felt...

He felt...

Fresh shame. Thor shut his eyes against the light, against his own bedchambers and the castle and his family and countless other things that were far, far too good for him in this moment as he worked to clear his thoughts and will away the heat that had pooled deep between his thighs. It was not as easy as it should have been; but then, Thor thought savagely, none of this was anything like what it _should_ have been.

This was not the sort of talk their mother had envisioned.

And that, at least, was ice on his ardor. That, at least, made him feel as sick as it should have.

Thor pushed his hair from his face, drew a shivering breath. He was supposed to be the one family tie Loki yet possessed. His, the only love untainted by lies and deceit. And now...

He tried, for a moment, to imagine their (his) mother's reaction. He tried, for a moment, to picture her face in his mind with that gentle, expectant smile. Those damp, red, hopeful eyes.

_Yes, Mother, I did indeed go to see him._

It was so easy to picture her waiting with held breath, her hands as they would have clasped his so tightly, and he could even imagine the _shock_ that would follow, the way the color would drain from her face and her mouth would fall open - but there... there, Thor faltered. He had seen his mother hopeful and he had seen her stunned beyond words, but that was as far as he could take it in his mind's eye. The _depths_ of the disappointment she would surely feel, the...

Would it be disgust? Thor did not think he had ever seen his (their) mother look at anyone with disgust.

Their father's face came to him more readily, because he knew what disappointment looked like there; caught himself wondering, if only for an instant, whether this would be the most disappointed his father - no, his king - had ever been in him. Was incest worse than bringing war to Asgard? Equally as wrong, in its own fashion?

He could almost feel the regalia being torn from his armor - could almost feel now what he hadn't felt at all in the moment: the fey hand that had reached into his breast and ripped out the power that he had always thought of as his birthright, casting him from the family and the home of which he had proven himself so unworthy. His heart thudded violently and new sweat broke out over his skin from the memory alone.

But that had been a year ago, and his (their) father had been so - distant since his return. Weary. Hollow, somehow, in a way that could not have had anything to do with the Odinsleep that would not be due for another full year.

The disappointment, Thor could well picture. The fury that this transgression had surely earned... no. His father did not have the strength for it.

When he found himself trying next to envision Jane's face, Thor realized dimly that he was searching his memories for something very specific - that he _wanted_ horror and hurt and bone-deep betrayal. Each time he failed to imagine it vividly enough, he tried again, longing for the balm of a sharper blade, for the pain that could only come from a clear voice in his head telling him that he could never be forgiven what he (what they) had done, and with this realization came another sort of guilt, because Jane... did not deserve to be used like that.

Thor knew he loved her. He was as sure of that now as he had been the last time they had seen each other. The memory of her, their one fleeting kiss, had helped sustain him over the last year; a small sweet warmth, fluttering in the great gaping empty place inside him. He had daydreamed about their reunion a hundred times or more.

How he would return to Midgard, to her Earth, in secret. How he would steal his way to wherever she now lived, although in his mind it was somehow the same small trailer in New Mexico. How he would come to her doorway, silently. How she would look up, unsuspecting. How her large brown eyes would fill with disbelief and warmth and pleasure.

How she would leap up from her diligent work and run to him, how he would take her in his arms and spin her round.

And how, in the intensity of her happiness, laughter bubbling from her lips, she might forgive him his delay.

The fantasy had changed a little when he had first learned that Loki was, impossibly, still alive - had mostly fled his mind, when he had first learned that Loki had appeared in Midgard, now in possession of the Cosmic Cube, might be about to bring about another war - and even more afterwards, when he had left, knowing that both Loki and the Cube needed shepherding back to Asgard, knowing that his duty must come before his pleasure. More vaguely, he supposed he had thought it would be better for them both if he could come to her with a light heart, instead of one steeped in fear over his brother's fate.

What difference, really, would a few more weeks have made on a year? A few more months, even? Surely, he had told himself, Jane would forgive him one more small delay.

Now he had so much more to beg forgiveness for.

Thor had not made his promises to her explicit. His only vow had been to return, and still he meant to. But in his heart, where oaths mattered most of all, he had promised her many things. Promises he had kept, no matter how comely the maids who had approached him since his restoration.

He was not a fascinated boy any longer, nor was he Fandral, and he liked to think that he had never _over_indulged - but pleasure and love were things he had always enjoyed sharing. _Had_ been things he had always enjoyed sharing. And he had done so without shame, because he had been unattached, and eligible, and young. It was expected, even, from a son of Odin.

Had been expected. Before he had promised Jane Foster to return to her - and to bring with him his heart, his lips, his hands, all parts of him that she might want, unsullied by any other. And since then, he had turned the maids away, as gently as he could. Since then, he had had only his own touch, and thoughts of her. Her eyes, her smile, the dots of beautiful dark color on her cheeks. He had not even missed it.

Until last night.

The taste of blood was startling in his mouth and he brought a hand up to wipe it; he must have bitten his lip, but he hadn't even felt it. Even as he stared at the red on his fingers, all he could see was green.

Their reunion would be different, now.

He would still come silently to her door. She would still, for a moment, be so happy to see him. But then she would see his face and come up short, her happiness stuttering, trembling. She would know that something was wrong.

Thor imagined taking her hands in his. So small and fragile. He imagined telling her softly, as gently as he possibly could, that he has been with another.

And then, who.

How could he ever possibly, _possibly_ explain?

_I was desperate,_ he could almost hear himself saying. Frustrated. _All I wanted was to stem the flow of his hateful words._ A kiss, like Loki had asked for on the morn of his coronation a year and a lifetime ago, had seemed the perfect stopper. _With a kiss, I could silence him and show how much he is still loved all at once._

Somehow, the words rang hollow, even though they were nothing but the truth.

Thor wet his lips and this time he felt it when the fresh cut stung. No.

The truth was that the more he tried to remember that part of the night, the more it seemed to blur together in heat and pain and need. All that mattered was that somehow the innocent loving brotherly kiss he had pressed so urgently on Loki's mouth had not been any of those things.

He had betrayed her so thoroughly, was still betraying her even now in his _thoughts_, and Thor found himself wishing the sting of his lip were worse.

This time, it was not nobility that stopped him from imagining Jane's face as she condemned him. It was only that, like his mother, he had never seen her more than distressed. And he could not imagine a scenario where all she felt was distress.

He pushed his hands slowly up his face, into his hair, and shivered - trembled - all the way down to his core. His chest burned. His eyes were wet. In that moment, he would have given anything, agreed to any bargain, for the chance to turn back the hands of time. To stop himself from going to the tower, to stop himself from...

From laying hand on his brother...

But he could not. For all the magic in Asgard, there were no spells capable of that, and nothing he could offer would change simple, indelible fact.

There was nothing to do but... accept what had happened. And, with it, whatever consequences would come. If the very thought left him feeling small and cold and powerless, then so be it. If he could not even imagine consequences dire enough, he would take those and more. For that was what would be right, what would be just.

For a few, flickering seconds, he felt lighter. To confess, to receive whatever punishment was due, would have been such a relief. And if by doing so he might even protect his little brother, might even be able to think the words _little brother_ again without his stomach clenching painfully, then he would gladly bear the punishment alone-

Except, of course, that he could not do that, could not do any of it, and those few seconds where he had dared to feel lighter were paid for in full as the reality of it struck him with so much new weight.

_At a meeting of nobles, Thor Odinson, you have as much right to speak on his behalf as any in our realm have to decry him._

His mother had charged him with that duty, and he had given her his most solemn vow - what little that was worth any longer - no, he forced that dark thought away, _focused_ - and even on the first day, where he had not been expected to speak, Thor knew his word had been suspect among the assembly. Proving to them that he was not blind with _love_ for Loki was already a task almost beyond him.

Would he now give them _this_ fertile soil for their doubts? How much worse than blind would they think him? Seduced into his brother's bed. Willing now to say anything, _do_ anything, for an illicit touch.

It was not what had happened. _His_ kiss had lit the fire between them, _his_ tongue had found the willing seam of Loki's mouth and pried it open. Thor had never wanted anything like it before - an uncertain frisson went through him at that thought and he seized it, shoved it down as deeply as he could because he _had not_ - but there was no denying their roles. If anyone had seduced anyone, _he_ had seduced Loki.

But the nobles, the court, the common people of Asgard - they would not believe that. Of course the man whose silver tongue could not be trusted even in his own defense must have been responsible. It could never have been _his_ doing, his choice, his fault. They would say that even if he thought as much, it was only because of Loki's machinations. (It wasn't, was it?)

(Was it?)

Thor buried his face in his hands and forced himself to breathe steadily. In the end, it mattered very little. Even if he _could_ have convinced the assembly of his culpability, the situation would not have been markedly improved. Manipulated or chosen consciously, his actions would disqualify him as his brother's representative.

He could tell no one, not until after the trial. No: not even then. This would be his secret, guarded carefully even in Hel.

Unless, of course, it was no secret at all.

_Heimdall,_ he thought, and Asgard lurched horribly beneath him.

He had not thought - much of anything, he admitted, after that first kiss. But the northeast tower was no more removed from Heimdall's sight than the dining hall where he had made his ill-fated plan to storm Jotunheim, or Jane's lab where she studied the mysteries of the universe, and there was no reason to think he had any secrets at all from Asgard's farseeing gatekeeper.

All that he had said to Loki in that tower, all that he had _done_ to Loki, their sounds and sighs and _groans_...

Loki would have remembered. Doubtlessly _had_ remembered. Yggdrasil, had this been his plan? To do this and then have them caught?

It was a paralyzing idea.

Except that Thor could not allow himself to be paralyzed. Not if there was even the slightest chance that Heimdall had not yet revealed his shame, and could somehow be persuaded to keep that silence for - at least a little while longer.

So he threw back the heavy coverlet, rushed from his bed, pulled on clothing enough to not draw attention in the hallways, and made for the Bifrost as quickly as he could, taking bitter comfort in the knowledge that this conversation would not be an easy one to have with his... with _their_ father.

.

Smokemare did her best to bear him from the castle and through the streets and to the bridge, and with every beat of her hooves Thor tried not to think of how much faster he could have reached the ruined end of the Bifrost had he flown there. The important thing was not how he traveled, and the longer ride gave him time to think - time he sorely needed to explain the inexplicable. To excuse the inexcusable.

A pretty lie, comforting in the moment. It fell apart as the distance closed between them and Thor found he could think of nothing over the pounding of his own heart. And with Heimdall now in sight, even the simplest of words seemed to die on his lips.

Ten yards remained between them, then six, then two. One. Less than that.

Heimdall did not turn to face him even as Smokemare brought him up to stand beside the brightest of the gods, and in that moment Thor knew there would be nothing for it but to beg.

"Heimdall," he began, trying _not_ to remember the hundred or so stories he had heard as a child about Heimdall's ability to hear the smallest creature breathing (which he now knew to be true) or scent out the most well-hidden fear (which he could only pray was not).

"Hail, Prince Thor," the other god returned in his deep rolling voice, his gaze still on the Void and nothing else.

The words came so easily to his lips that Thor had to bite his mouth shut to stay them: _Turn and face your future king!_ He might have said them once; was, in fact, fairly certain he _had_ said them - and more than once. Ordering one of the oldest and wisest to his whim, demanding attention and respect for nothing more than a title he had yet to receive, let alone earn.

So foolish. So self-important. And he was these things yet. Even now, here, when he should be crawling on his knees for Heimdall's favor, his arrogance was deeply ingrained enough as to be _reflexive_.

"Hail and well-met," he murmured instead, and struggled to say more without success.

Kneeling, he should be kneeling. Bowing his head, offering his neck, offering his _life_. Thor had little practice with deference, but he had seen it often enough, and if he had no pretty words to offer - if he had no words at _all_ - perhaps with action he could at least convey some of his supplication. What use did Heimdall have for his words, for excuses, he _knew_...

But that was cowardice talking. All to avoid having to actually say it out loud. Thor wet his lips and opened his mouth.

Then Heimdall said, "You will make a fine king someday," and the words settled like a stone in his stomach.

Was this - cruelty? A jest, if nothing else. The throne had never felt further away than it did at this moment, and after what he had seen... Thor stared at the other god, uncertain. He... _did_ know, didn't he? He _had_ seen... hadn't he?

"I - appreciate your faith," he said at last.

Heimdall inclined his head ever so slightly, and though he did not turn his head Thor could have sworn he _felt_ the weight of the watchman's gaze, sudden and palpable, penetrating - but just as swiftly it was gone, and he was left to wonder whether or not he had imagined the sensation. Whether or not he would have felt it last night. Whether or not he would have _noticed_ it, last night, with everything else that had happened.

"You reached out to him," Heimdall continued, "and that is the main thing."

The words themselves were innocent enough; the tone, almost reassuring. But all Thor could think of was how easy it had been to throw his brother up against the wall, and the rush of - had it been satisfaction? His throat was dry. To call that _reaching out_ would have been obscene. "Heimdall," he said haltingly.

Up to that moment, Thor had not been sure. He had _suspected_, had felt the wrongness of it deep in his belly, but would never have gambled so much on a feeling. Not until Heimdall told him, with the utmost sincerity:

"Our queen can ask no more of you. Whatever Loki's response was, the fault is not yours."

And then suddenly there it was, numbing him so quickly he could not even be sure what he felt was relief. Thor heard himself asking, "You did not see?" but the words seemed to come from somewhere very far away, the answer profoundly unimportant. Perhaps Heimdall had averted his eyes politely, allowing his princes their privacy. Perhaps he had always looked away from the royal family for that reason. Perhaps he was even sworn to it, and had only ever been moved to spy on them when circumstances were particularly dire.

Or perhaps the reason was something entirely different, one of a dozens of possibilities that no doubt existed but which he could not think of just at the moment. What did it matter which was true?

So great, in fact, was Thor's unconcern that it surprised him when Heimdall turned to stare, a rare flinting agitation in his usually impassive gaze. "...No, my prince," he said slowly, snuffing it out with visible effort. "The All-Father placed powerful binding wards on the northeast tower."

"To keep his magic in check," Thor agreed automatically, then paused. No, that was what the chains did. The binding wards on the tower were...

He _knew_ this, someone had told him - once, very long ago, when a powerful sorcerer had last threatened Asgard. He had been a child, then, confident that no man their father had imprisoned could possibly be a threat any longer, but _Loki_ had asked, Loki had wanted the reassurance of a lengthy technical explanation of how they could be safe now from the man's powerful magic.

For a moment, all he could remember was the wideness of Loki's eyes, how small and shivery he had seemed, and how badly in need of Thor's protection. He'd made brash promises that night, the first of many, and they had shared a bed for months afterward, he facing the door so that any threat would have to go through him to reach his brother, until the sorcerer's trial had come to an end and his execution had made Loki well and truly safe in a way that a hundred explanations and a million promises could not.

The memory tightened his chest, but some fragment of those explanations came back to him as well. "They - will not let him leave the room," he began, careful. "Because they are bound to his blood. And..."

Heimdall waited a moment longer, then put a question to him instead. "Tell me, did you feel nothing strange in the air of the room?"

Banishing the heat that wanted to crawl up his throat, Thor frowned and looked away. "I..."

Had he...? Like the weight of Heimdall's gaze, he could not be sure he would even have noticed. Something strange in the _air_?

"A dryness," Thor said at last, pursing his lips. That was the best he could do.

Fortunately, it seemed to also have been _correct_, for Heimdall nodded and turned his gaze back to the vastness of the sky. "What you felt, my prince, was the _absence_ of magic. The chains take the magic from within the sorcerer; the binding wards take it from the air around him, creating - a void." And here, the odd agitation returned to the gatekeeper's tone: "So powerful, in Loki's case, that it has created... a hole in my sight."

He seemed - almost embarrassed, as if this reflected poorly on him, and Thor felt a very vague and distant sense of sympathy.

No one had seen. No one _knew_. No one needed ever know.

"A void of magic," Thor repeated, soft. What a strange thing to be grateful for. And - something about it niggled at him, something he had meant to ask after but was now forgetting...

Then a very different thought occurred, and he stiffened, turning abruptly to stare at the other god.

"You can see nothing that occurs in my brother's room," he said evenly, ignoring the expression of displeasure that crossed Heimdall's face. "Nothing at all."

"...No," Heimdall admitted.

Thor almost did not recognize the feeling that welled up in him then, but for an instant he was again the little boy who had pulled Loki into bed for only innocent reasons. "Then he is vulnerable to attack! _Anyone_ could enter that tower-"

"Which is why I watch it," the other god interrupted him, voice smooth and strong and _controlled_. "I saw you enter the tower, and I knew your purpose. If any enter whose purpose I do _not_ know, I alert our king."

As swiftly as it had come, the righteous anger drained out of Thor and he was left feeling distinctly hollow. "I see."

"He is not unprotected," Heimdall said, and again something - about those words... "Your father would never allow that."

Thor inclined his head very slightly in acknowledgment. No, of course not. It had been ridiculous to even let himself _think_ anything else. Whatever Loki believed, his... family... But that word had soured now, _he_ had soured it, and Thor could not finish the sentence even in his own thoughts. "I know," he murmured. "I was not - thinking."

He was again conscious of the other god's gaze on him, heavy. Too heavy. Almost - hot. And abruptly Thor wondered how he must have seemed, what Heimdall must have thought of him; how he had spent so long abed, before suddenly tearing from it and fetching his swiftest horse. His desire to speak with the gatekeeper must have been clear.

Wetting his lips, Thor drew a shallow breath and struggled to put his thoughts into proper order - to summon words that would put such suspicions to rest. But after so many centuries of relying on Loki to do just that, his first impulse even now was to wonder what his brother would have said, and then the only words that came to his mind were breathy and sweet and poisonous. He cinched his eyes shut, let the rush of blood drown out that echo, and knew his silence was damning.

But in that silence, Heimdall seemed to reach his own conclusions. "You _were_ thinking," he said, with so much certainty that Thor had to stare at him. "You were thinking of his safety, as you have for much of your life."

_That_ - ached. Thor forced a thin smile onto his lips. "You know me better than I know myself."

"Should I not know you at _least_ as well?" Heimdall asked, and his attention shifted back, to the sky and the realms beyond the end of the broken Bifrost that were, for now, lost to the rest of them. "I have watched you grow from an impulsive child into the man you are today." There was an edge of something like - pride, in his tone, and that too ached. "But you do still manage, on occasion, to surprise me."

Thor made a questioning noise, politeness more than anything else. He did not know how much more of this conversation he would be able to bear.

Then Heimdall explained, "When I saw you flee the castle, I assumed you rode for the assembly," and the answer turned out to be none at all.

The assembly.

Odin's _beard_, the assembly.

Dimly, Thor was aware that Heimdall had not stopped speaking, but the only thing he heard after that point was a meaningless rumbling noise.

How could he have forgotten-

No, that was a stupid question, he knew _exactly_ how he had forgotten and what had distracted him.

"You were right," he murmured, no doubt interrupting, and turned abruptly to mount Smokemare. "Thank you, Heimdall, for your counsel."

It was the barest of the traditional expressions for taking leave of Asgard's gatekeeper, but he could not remember any of the others and he had no _time_ for elaborate ceremonial partings. Thor did not even look back over his shoulder to see whether Heimdall had been offended, only snapped his reins and left the Bifrost behind him.

.

A thousand thoughts assaulted his mind as he rode, some of them images of the hallowed assembly room empty by the time he reached it, the sentence somehow already carried out even though he knew that would never and could never happen on the second day, and Thor let them come. Welcomed the pain, perhaps. It would still never be as much as he deserved.

_Fool_. Self-indulgent, careless fool. Was it not enough that he had twisted his oath to their mother, now he would break it completely?

Thor spurred Smokemare to greater speeds until he reached the great assembly halls, riding her over wide cobblestone paths all the way to narrow streets that had never been meant for men on horseback. He rode her right to the silver-domed Hall of Justice, and there he abandoned her to bewildered servants, scarcely taking time as he ran up two more flights of stairs to straighten his clothing and run his fingers through his hair.

_A prince must strive to at least _look_ the part,_ whispered a voice in the back of his mind that sounded far too much like Loki's for comfort.

And then he had arrived at the towering doors to the assembly hall, where stout warriors who had been standing guard hastily threw them open for him, and though every head in the room turned to stare at him the first eye Thor met was his father's.

A king's role in a full trial was very specific, and limited: he oversaw the proceedings, listened to the witnesses, and ensured that the sentence was carried out. His authority, as Odin had once explained when his sons were very young, was not all-encompassing; the King must always answer to his people, and a trial was one of those few instances where that answering was literal.

Within the Hall of Justice, it was Forseti, God of Justice, who ruled - and their positions in the room were as befitted their roles.

Odin sat at a high table at the far end of the assembly, well-apart from the loose circle of nobles who stood and waited for their chance to speak, and Forseti stood at the center of that circle, commanding the attention of all.

"-have gathered here today," Forseti was saying, but he broke off, a frown creasing his features, and his surprised displeasure rippled through the nobles around him.

Thor thought he saw a glimmer of the disappointment he had envisioned on his father's face, before the unreadable stony mask he had been wearing for days now settled back down upon it.

Embarrassing. Disruptive.

Strangely, though, Thor felt no shame as he strode into the circle and took his expected place near its center. Perhaps he simply had too many other, better things to be ashamed of; mere _lateness_, when he had missed nothing crucial, could not rank. But it felt like more than that.

For the first time since he had entered the northeast tower, everything was terribly clear. Thor knew exactly what he had to do, and no raised eyebrows - no furtive whispering - and no manner of pointed throat-clearing from Forseti would shake that certainty. Whatever had happened between them last night, whatever Loki had _intended_, would matter very little if he allowed his brother to be executed. Guilt, doubt, shame... they were luxuries that he could not afford to indulge any longer than he already had.

Yesterday, Loki's crimes had been listed, from the smallest slight he had ever visited upon a farmer to... what had happened a year ago, and the consequences for Midgard then and now. Today, witnesses to each crime would begin to speak.

After yesterday, Thor had no doubt that this process would take days, if not weeks. Hours upon hours of every man, woman, and child in Asgard who had ever fallen victim to a harmless prank describing it in great detail. And over a thousand years, there had been many, many harmless pranks.

Thor would listen to them all. He would have to. But then, when the last of them had said their piece, he would step forward and claim his right. His only chance, perhaps. He could not afford to waste it, and certainly could not afford to be late again.

It was all so terribly, wonderfully clear.

Now all he had to do was figure out _what_ to say, when the time came.

.

The setting sun painted fire on the walls of his chambers and Thor settled, heavily, in a chair by the unlit fireplace. There were hours yet before he could retire to bed without feeling like a child, but he was exhausted from the day's events - and, he had to remind himself, there would be another assembly tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that.

He had known it wouldn't be easy to listen. He had still underestimated how very wearying it _was_. The trial had been so much worse than any feast.

But just at the moment, Thor was not thinking about the trial, or tomorrow. His eyes, almost unfocused in their intensity, were fixed upon something else entirely.

Mjolnir was no ordinary weapon to be belted to his hip and brought everywhere with him, but in the last year he had kept it close. Afraid, he supposed now, of what would happen if he let the hammer out of his sight. Afraid to set it down and then reach for its hilt only to find that it was, once again, beyond his power to lift.

The same fear he felt now.

Yesterday, he had left it behind only reluctantly to go to the assembly, knowing that to attend a trial so well-armed would have seemed inappropriately aggressive. He remembered the way he had scowled, and how he had let Mjolnir _thunk_ carelessly to the floor in front of the fireplace before turning on his heel and leaving it behind.

Where it rested, even now, its leather-bound hilt so close to him that all he had to do was extend his arm to touch it.

Thor watched as the light from the setting sun dragged the shape of the window behind him slowly down over the wall, until it struck Mjolnir's handle and gleamed.

Twice today he had needed the hammer and its power of flight. Twice today he had deliberately put the thought from his mind. The first time, he had had a reasonable enough excuse; the second time, he had not bothered to invent one.

Would it feel the way it had felt in Midgard? Like a weight that would crush his weak mortal bones? Like a power that had never belonged to him, and never could have? The wrongness of its hilt in his hands had scalded him, left marks no healing stone could mend.

_He stole my best horse._ No mention of how he had been bragging that the steed had once bested Sleipnir in a fair race, only now the King would not admit to it because then he would have to pay the coin they had wagered.

_He tricked my daughter out of her dowry._ Of course, the daughter had broken her vows to her betrothed, but that apparently bore no relevance to these proceedings.

Loki was Loki, God of Mischief and Lies. What else did they expect of him? Thor, God of Thunder, their future king, was the one who had _failed_ them.

Had failed his brother, and his mother, and his father. Had failed Jane, and her realm.

Where was his trial, then?

Here, perhaps.

Thor heaved himself from his seat, crossed the room and stood before Mjolnir. The moment could not have been more different from the one in that human tent, when all he had felt was triumph and certainty. This time, when he reached for the hammer, it was in supplication.

And this time, it came to his hand readily - the hum of answering power lapping his palm with none of his hesitation, none of his fear. Mjolnir was _his_, as easily as if the hammer could have imagined no other outcome.

Outside, clouds gathered and the wind picked up: instantaneous, sympathetic response to his reclamation of the power he had, somehow, not lost.

Worthy still. In spite of everything.

It made no _sense_. And neither did anything else that had happened this day. Fortune had smiled on him, again and again. Had _favored_ him, protected him from the consequences of his... actions. It was perverse. Fate was all but _rewarding_ him for - for doing what he _knew_ had been wrong.

Hadn't it?

Then his brother's voice came back to him, and it wasn't a sinuous curling whisper but something - almost honest, almost plain:

_Don't stop now._  
_There's no harm in this._  
_Are you going to apologize for this?_  
_It could not stop me from what I want._

Thor rubbed his thumb over the leather binding on Mjolnir's hilt.

How much clearer could Loki have made it that he had _wanted_ that? That he had wanted... him?

Was it - somehow - _not_... indelibly, unforgivably wrong?

He knew he loved Loki. He was as sure of it now as he had been over the centuries of their shared youth. It would take more than a hot knife in his flank, a pushed button, or (shamefully) (because this one, perhaps, should have been harder) the slaughter of innocents to erase that.

As a boy, he'd always thought he would do anything for Loki. _This_ - was not such a very large thing after all, was it?

And Mjolnir's weight was so reassuring in his hand.

The sun set and the room around him was cast in pale moonlight, but Thor stayed where he was and let the time pass. He had a great deal to think about, and a few more days at most before it would be his turn to speak at his brother's trial.

Sleep could wait. Everything else could wait for a little while longer.

Perhaps Jane would still forgive him, in the end.


	6. How Long a Year

The wrecked end of the Bifrost came alive with blue fire, startlingly violent, and then there they stood: two figures, the capsule with the crackling Cube between them, and for an instant with so much light Sif could not tell the one from the other but it did not matter because there were two of them, standing straight and tall, which meant that Thor had returned to them - alive.

And that easily, she could breathe again.

_Thor,_ she had pleaded with him, an edge of something that sounded far too much like desperation in her voice, _you do not have to do this._

She remembered how the line of his shoulders had stiffened, ever so slightly, before he had turned all his attention back to the preparations he was making for the journey. _Of course I do. He lives, Sif._

So simple, as if that were all there had ever been to the matter, but she had seized his elbow and forced him to look at her. _That is not what I meant. I meant that you do not have to do it alone!_

He had been startled, and then relieved; he had put his hand over hers, squeezed gently, and thanked her for her concern. _With the Bifrost broken, it will be very hard for Father to send even one,_ he'd reminded her, but she had known he was pleased she hadn't meant to suggest he shouldn't follow his - shouldn't follow _Loki_ to Midgard.

(And she hadn't.) (She would never have meant that.)

In the end, of course, there had been no real question. If it could only be one of them, there was no finer warrior in all of Asgard.

(But...)

"Thank Idunn's golden apples," Volstagg breathed beside her, and she thought she could hear her relief reflected in his voice but did not dare turn her head to look.

Ceremony was to thank for their presence in what would otherwise have been a private moment, and so Sif would play her role, small as it was, to rigid perfection. As the King and Queen's personal escort, Lady Sif and the Warriors Three provided a line of defense between them and the prisoner; there they would remain until the Einherjar had taken that prisoner into custody, at which point Prince Thor would step forward, kneel before Their Majesties, and present them with the Cosmic Cube.

It was then that Sif planned to catch his eye and smile warmly for him, as warmly as she possibly could, so that he might know without words how glad she was to see him home again and safe. Hopefully it would be enough, for she likely wouldn't have a chance to speak with him until tomorrow.

Or, at least, that was what should have happened.

But the last of the Cube's blue fire had not even quite flickered out when she heard a sound like a strangled sob from behind her, and then her queen shot past her, heavy skirts bundled in her hands and all pretense abandoned as she rushed to embrace her-

-_not_ her son, she was not running for Thor, and Sif's hands were on the hilt of her spear before she had even really registered the full magnitude of _her queen, moving to embrace a monster and a criminal_ when Frigga halted abruptly, as if she had come up against an invisible wall. For an instant, Sif thought the enormity of the breach in protocol had overwhelmed her, but no, she was clearly staring at something, something Sif could not see from her vantage point, and now the Queen had dropped her skirts, hands moving slowly to cover her mouth instead.

Risking a glance over her shoulder at the assembled Einherjar, Sif could not tell what any of them thought of the display: They were statues, their faces blank; they had been well-trained. But she could not imagine they _approved_, and it made her heart clench even as she turned carefully back. As much as she wanted to, she did not quite dare the same glance at her king's face.

Until, of course, he spoke, and to look anywhere else would have been worse. "Thor, Son of Odin." His voice was deep and resonating, his expression grave. "You have done the Realm Eternal a great service this day."

Thor hesitated, then stepped forward, leaving his mother and his - the prisoner behind. "Thank you," he said, his own voice taut.

It was almost as it should have been; almost ceremonial again. After a moment, Thor even went down on one knee. But, where he should have lifted the Cube to present it, he spoke instead, and what he said was as wrong for the moment as the sight of the Queen standing beside the criminal.

"He is home."

Sif fought to keep herself from flinching, but Odin only gazed down at him, unblinking, for long seconds before at last inclining his head in the smallest, faintest acknowledgment. Nonetheless, it was enough for the Einherjar, who snapped to attention and moved to... fulfill their duty.

And it was only then, as she found herself lowering her eyes instead of watching the procession, that Sif realized how thoroughly she had been avoiding looking at him - had been avoiding _thinking_ of him. As if the sound of his name in her own mind would shake her apart.

The cowardice disgusted her.

_Loki._ She forced the syllables, squeezing her eyes shut. Loki, Silvertongue. Loki, Liesmith. A thousand other epithets, some far less kind. Loki, Loki, _Loki_.

And still it was difficult to look at him, but she forced that too, opening her eyes and raising them to stare.

Loki was not looking at her, his attention all on the Einherjar as they approached, but as she watched he lifted his hands - chained together, she saw - and stepped forward to meet them with his head held high.

Almost as if to _display_ the dark stripe across his jaw, the stark metal cage that held his mouth firmly shut.

No wonder Frigga had been so aghast. Even the Einherjar hesitated for a moment before one stepped forward to address him.

"Loki Odinson."

They were visibly ready to seize him but he only stood there, waiting, and his obvious silent cooperation gave them no opportunity. Instead, they were eventually forced to lead him from the bridge.

He swept past her and Thor and his king without so much as a glance for any of them, so full to brimming with dignity that it was almost difficult to remember - even with the chains, even with the gag - that he was a criminal and not still a prince, receiving the escort due to his station.

(It would be hours before she really registered how thin he had looked, how pale: all the meanness of a starving animal beneath tarnished regalia, the worn cloth of his finery and the ragged length of his hair. In that moment, Sif had seen none of those things, as potent an illusion as any he had ever crafted.)

Too late, she remembered her intent to catch Thor's eye and turned to find him staring after Loki with an expression on his face that she had never wanted to see there again.

Sif closed her eyes.

_That_ night was bitterly cold in her memory, as nights in Asgard almost never were. There had been a feast, one of many, and all the citizenry had been in attendance - even the Einherjar, even Heimdall himself, to celebrate Thor's restoration... the return of his power and, most had thought, his soon-to-be ascension.

(It had seemed so inevitable back then.)

And that night, like most of the nights that followed it, they had been at Thor's elbow, drinking like everyone else to his health, while he offered sallow smiles to the court and emptied more than one wine cask himself before slipping away as early as he possibly could.

Usually, on nights like that one, she and the Warriors Three had let him retreat to his chambers to sleep off all he had imbibed. _It will do him good and us no harm,_ Volstagg had said the first time it happened, and they had all agreed; since Thor seemed not yet ready to speak to them, the least they could do was allow him to indulge in whatever helped him get through these feasts.

But this night, when Thor stood from the banquet table with a vague smile for his friends and subjects, something in her heart had clenched. Maybe it was the way he had not seemed to hear her when she she'd spoken to him earlier; maybe it was the distance in his eyes now. Either way, an urge rose up in her to follow him, now, quickly, before it was too late.

The urge had made no sense, but Sif had not honed her instincts for a thousand years only to disregard them when they screamed so clearly, and from the way he narrowed his eyes Hogun shared her sense. She inclined her head at him, and he jerked his head ever so slightly to the side. No words were needed for them to understand each other in this moment; he would stay here, and she would follow Thor, but he wanted to know what she found.

And so Sif had made her own excuses, then left the feast behind to trace Thor's path. It was her good fortune that his steps were heavy, slowed from what seemed to be deep thought, and he was not difficult to shadow from the banquet hall.

He did not, of course, go to his chambers. In fact, he left the castle and then the city completely, his head tilted back and his eyes on the sky.

Sif remembered the entire evening with unusual clarity: she remembered the chill on her skin, the pale light of the waning moon. But no part of the night was so vividly burned into her memory as when they finally came to the sundered bridge.

For a long while, Thor had simply stood there, gazing down it, while she hunkered behind a column and waited. Then he had stepped forward, as if he made to cross something which could no longer be crossed, and she was forced to follow him out onto the long, narrow bridge.

She had had no cover there, no hope of hiding herself if he had but turned his head, and Sif had begun to imagine the conversation that would then ensue. Not that she thought he would be - angry, precisely, but if it were her... if _he_ had crept after her like a thief, wouldn't she have felt just the tiniest bit... betrayed? This was spying. _She_ was spying on _Thor_. And the closer he got to the edge of the bridge, the more certain she became that, well-intentioned or no, she was spying on a very private moment indeed.

Finally Thor stood on the very end of the bridge, where his might had shattered it to ragged pieces, and bowed his head.

The site where he had severed his connection to Midgard, and the mortal woman there. The site where he had fought his brother, and lost him.

While the rest of Asgard celebrated his many victories, their prince mourned.

Sif hung back as much as she could, knowing it would not be enough, and yet - unwilling to put any further space between them.

It would not be the last time she found him like this, standing on the very end of the bridge and staring down into the swirling darkness, lit from below by the bridge's rainbow light.

And it would not be the last time that she hovered, far enough away to give him what privacy she could, but close enough that if she ran with all her strength she might yet catch his hand, if...

If.

The thought was an insult, so she did not finish it that night or any other. Of all the many ways a warrior's life could end, there were none quite so dishonorable as this. Sif had, herself, never felt anything but scorn at the idea. It was cowardly, it was base, it was _beneath_ the dignity of an Asgardian, let alone-

But it seemed there was some difference between an idea in the abstract and seeing a friend (only a friend?) brought so low.

Sif remembered the rest of the night much less vividly. She knew she had watched him stand there for hours, unmoving, and that only the tremendous weighted slowness with which he finally lowered his head and turned to head home saved her from detection. She knew she had gone back to the banquet hall and reported to Hogun as little of what she'd seen as she possibly could, and she remembered the way his sharp black eyes had fixed on her face and how certain she had been that he was hearing far more than her halting words could possibly have conveyed.

How much he had told Fandral and Volstagg, she could not say, but the hunting trip that followed was a unanimous decision, and for weeks after they had all worked together to keep Thor as occupied as was possible. Expeditions, quests, contests - whatever pretext they could contrive, no matter how flimsy, to coax him from his father's halls.

It had been difficult. It had been exhausting. And a year was not nearly long enough for him to truly recover from such loss, but gradually his smile had come to brighten. These days, she thought it might even have touched his eyes.

He had not been happy, or whole; he had missed the mortal woman, and he had mourned his brother, and perhaps he always would have - but he had not been quite so haunted. The shadows had receded.

And now, so easily, they were back. Back, and darker than ever.

She had to struggle to keep her breathing even and could not hope to focus on the rest of the ceremony as it resumed around her, the voice of her king a distant drone, but then Fandral shifted beside her, brushing her shoulder in a way that _could_ have been incidental but did not feel it, and she took some small solace from the careful reminder that she was not alone in her desperate disappointment. No, and neither would she be alone in seeking to remedy it. Together they had chased those shadows from Thor once, and together they would do it again. For as long as the trial lasted, if Thor needed it.

(Because perhaps he would not.) (Perhaps, as the trial wore on, he would finally see...)

One thing at a time, Sif reminded herself. She could not control what the months ahead would bring. Best to focus on this moment and the coming night. Another feast, in honor of Asgard's favorite son, and, if she could not count on an opportunity to speak with Thor himself, she and the Warriors Three would at least be able to keep an eye on him while they made their plans.

Yes. She could already imagine the arguments over which adventure they would conjure for Thor this time, and as she imagined the tight knot in her belly slowly loosened.

.

But in the end, the arguments they had were not over whether treasure-hunting was better than dragon-slaying, and they could not keep an eye on anyone because Odin sat alone on his dais that night. And the next night.

And the one after that.

There was no risk in gazing openly at him now, not with so many in attendance and so much noise, and Sif found herself watching her king often - and comparing the impassive expression on his face with the way Frigga had picked up her skirts to run across the Bifrost.

No: impassive was the wrong word. Distant, yes; distant in a way that Frigga had never been, not with the headstrong girl who had befriended her son and not with anyone. But not impassive.

Though she was not close to her king and had never felt comfortable guessing at his state of mind, Sif thought... a better word might have been _troubled_.

"And the doors to Thor's chambers are still barred?" Volstagg was murmuring, mostly into the haunch of meat in his fist.

"He sees no one," Fandral replied. "The Queen has taken ill, and the Prince is still exhausted from his journey to Midgard. Or," he added, with a pale imitation of his usual roguish smile, "that is what the serving girls say, at least."

A brief silence fell, and Sif realized they were both looking at her expectantly. She did not often let comments like that go unremarked upon. Perhaps something like, _Oh, are you dallying with the servants now instead of the livestock? You _are_ moving up in the world after all!_ But the moment stretched on, and Fandral eventually cleared his throat and looked away from her.

"Those, of course, are the official explanations." He took a pull of his goblet, then set it down on the table with care. They were all very careful with their goblets these days. "But he had strength enough today to attend the trial, and you would think that a great deal more taxing than a feast."

The first day of the trial. How had that gone, Sif wondered.

If she could have, she would have gone with him. She would have sat beside him and given every ounce of her strength that he might feel it and be - comforted. But the assembly was for nobles only, and she was not permitted even to enter its hallowed enclave. All she had been able to do was wait, and imagine.

Mostly, she had found herself imagining Thor's face, and the shadows there growing heavier and heavier while she, they, could do nothing for him.

"But deliberations were over hours ago," Volstagg complained. "Oh, I do not _like_ this. Where can he _be_?"

It was a question they had all asked at one point or another over the last few days, and by this point it was dull; resigned, and almost rhetorical. Volstagg almost certainly did not expect an answer; for his part, Fandral took another long sip of wine, and Sif only stared at the dais and its empty thrones.

But Hogun, who had until that point spent the entire evening watching the far door with his usual focused intensity, had another response. He said, "With Loki."

Beside her, Sif was aware of Fandral going very still and the sound of Volstagg's voice, low and oddly distant:

"Is- He's allowed visitors?"

Hogun's response, too, seemed somehow muffled. "The Queen has been to see him."

"And with the trial beginning today..." Volstagg let out a rumbling sigh. "Aye, he'd want to let Loki know how it was going."

Now Fandral was on his feet, hands slamming down on the table, and Sif wondered how he had managed it with so little noise. "Is he mad?!"

"Now, lad... He _is_ still Thor's brother."

And that was the difficulty, wasn't it.

_Loki, this is Sif. Sif, this is my brother Loki._

Thor's voice was so young in her mind, but even then he had been all broad smiles and healthy bronzed skin - and the boy who followed in his wake, though apparently his brother, could not have been more different. Pale, with luminous eyes that seemed too large in his narrow face, and nervous, wrapping skinny arms around himself and staring at her. None of Thor's easy confidence, and she remembered a wave of pity that had made her extend her hand all the more readily, determined to befriend him.

_Pleased to meet you,_ he had said, very proper and polite but also hushed. _Thor has told me so much about you._

Sometimes, in her memory, she thought she saw a little flicker of something in his face as he said it; a curl of his upper lip, a wrinkle on the bridge of his nose - some small sign of distaste. But memories played tricks like that sometimes. Once you knew what you'd thought a branch was really a serpent, you always fancied you must have seen a ripple of movement or heard that telltale hiss.

To have seen nothing...

To have been _flattered_ that Thor had told the snake so much about her...

"Oh, yes," Fandral was agreeing, and the sharpness of his voice brought her attention back to the present. "His brother. A brother who killed him last year, who gutted him days ago! I somehow doubt being _imprisoned_ has much improved his mood."

"His spells are bound, aren't they?" Volstagg protested, but he sounded less certain now. "And he will be unarmed..."

Fandral shook his head, lips thinning. "You underestimate him. You've always underestimated him."

And he was right, Sif knew. They all had.

"Heimdall would see it," she found herself protesting softly. "Even Loki would not dare attack him now."

The smile Fandral turned on her was mirthless. "No?" he asked. "And what has he left to lose, I wonder?"

Sif hesitated, but Hogun said, "His life," and not even Fandral could argue with that.

The rest of that night was spent in silence, save for the sounds of silverware and goblets, while they waited - but still Thor did not come to that feast, or the one that followed.

.

Sif could be patient. She had waited for a great many things in her life, all of them more sorely needed and each time longer than four days. Her patience should not have worn thin, and certainly not this easily, but wearing thin it was.

She had given up on the idea of him ever coming to a feast; the excitement was already dying down and soon there would no longer _be_ feasts for him to miss. But Thor was not only absent at the feasts: he was absent completely, and his chambers remained barred. The only time he left them at all, according to Fandral, was to attend the assembly sessions. Except for yesterday, when he had apparently gone to speak with Heimdall first.

The strain of the trial. It was absorbing all the energy he had to spare. Yes, Sif thought; that was a reasonable explanation. She needed only to wait a little while longer, and...

But this was the fifth day. There would be no assembly, and it would have been so easy for him to show himself at last. In spite of herself, Sif had allowed herself to picture it: how, as they came together at the same corner of the training grounds they always favored, they would find Thor already waiting for them, perhaps even with an apology on his lips.

And the disappointment she felt when they arrived instead to an empty field was all the more bitter for that small swell of hope.

Fandral murmured, "A chamber maid told me he was bound for the library this morning. I thought she must have been mistaken."

_How desperate he is to avoid us_ went unsaid in the silence that followed, but after a moment Volstagg unsheathed his sword and drove it into the soft earth like a curse.

"I cannot take this any longer," the large god announced. "We _must_ see him! He needs us."

"Someone should tell _him_ that," Fandral retorted, but his words did little to disguise the eager gleam in his eyes.

They, too, had had enough of waiting.

A small voice inside Sif protested that she should wait at least one more day - that Thor must have his own reasons for avoiding them, if that was truly what he was doing - but her threadbare patience was no match for the appeal of the thought Fandral's careless words had planted in her.

"Someone _will_ tell him that," she said, and could not help but smile.

Volstagg and Fandral were quick to match her smile; Hogun narrowed his eyes at her with a quiet warmth that was as close as he ever came.

"They say a dragon razes the countryside near the Blue Mountains," Volstagg offered thoughtfully.

"Do they really? Why," Fandral said, widening his eyes, "that's less than half a day's journey from here. We could be there and back again by nightfall."

A longer distraction would have been preferable, but the assembly would resume tomorrow and by now it seemed safe to assume that Thor would not be willing to risk missing it. A day was the most they could manage - for now.

So they would just have to make the best of it.

The journey from the training fields to the Hall of Knowledge was not a brief one, as they lay on opposite edges of the city, but they mounted without hesitation and passed the time exchanging stories they had heard of a place none of them had ever been before.

"There are books which speak their words to you," Volstagg recounted, and Fandral said, "Handy for you, since you cannot read," and Sif promised airily, "We'll let you know if we find one that flatters the reader instead so you can marry it," and if only Thor had been there with them to laugh in his rich low rumble it would have been...

Not yet perfect, no. But so much closer than they had come in the last year that it made her chest tight.

Then they had arrived, the Hall of Knowledge stretched out before them, and with their horses stabled she and the Warriors Three walked up to its doors.

There were larger halls in Asgard - most of them, in point of fact - but the Hall of Knowledge was perhaps one of the more impressive pieces of craftsmanship, with the runes of a thousand or more languages engraved on its marble columns spelling words of welcome to the curious eye.

As she passed through them, Sif caught herself wondering which of these was the language Thor had called _English_.

_We were expected to speak Old Norse,_ his voice said in her ear, bright and earnest. _Or at least - I think Selvig said 'Norwegian'. They were very surprised to hear me use instead a 'very English sort of English'._ And then in her memory he laughed, more softly than she had liked.

"So," Sif said, turning her attention firmly to the men with her, "assuming that Thor is still here, where would he be?"

She had not intended it to be a difficult question, but as soon as the words passed her own lips she realized that she herself had no idea.

"-There must be books about fighting," Volstagg said at length, hands settling on his hips. "Yes. Histories of wars past!"

"Or techniques," Fandral added. "Instructions for..."

But there he came up short, and Sif frowned. _That_ seemed unlikely. What teacher would write down instructions instead of telling interested pupils directly, whereupon mistakes could be so much more easily corrected? The idea of a history had more merit, especially on the wars of mortal races. She could imagine that _some_, at least, would be interested in an account more detailed than was practical for a rousing after-dinner ballad.

"...Well," Fandral said, "we can start with the war histories. I wonder where you would find those?"

He reached for the door, faltering slightly when it opened on its own before he could so much as lay a hand upon it, and then all four of them paused to take in the silent hall beyond, well-lit by hanging torches and large windows but still somehow... gloomy.

Sif took a step over the threshold, willing herself not to be affected by the hallowed atmosphere, but even as the others followed her lead it was easier said than done. She had never been in so still a place, had never been so conscious of her own breathing except on the field of battle, and-

-no, she realized almost immediately; no, that was not true. There was one other place, in Asgard itself, where she had held her breath just as instinctively and felt just as thoroughly smothered by the quiet.

The Weaving Hall, where her mother had once sent her with every determination that she learn arts more suited to a woman and forget this childish nonsense of wanting to wield a sword. Rows upon rows of looms, dozens of girls her own age, and every head bent to the reverent task of sliding strands of colored yarn into place.

Without meaning to, her own footsteps had grown soft; she found herself reluctant to speak, reluctant to make more sound than a whisper of pages turning, and Sif immediately quickened her pace so that her boot heels echoed sharply off the walls.

"Come on, then," she said over her shoulder with as much volume as she could muster, and she tried not to let the relief she felt show as she marched down the steps and into the library stacks.

Perhaps it was because the Warriors Three followed her lead in this, too, tromping in her wake, or perhaps it was simply custom in the Hall of Knowledge, but either way they did not get far before they were beset by young pages eager to help them find whatever it was they were so loudly looking for.

"Show us your war histories!" Volstagg said immediately, and Fandral had to rush to redirect: "Or you could just point us to Prince Thor, if he's still here?"

The pages, who moments ago had seemed quite confident in their authority over warriors in the Hall of Knowledge, withered visibly at this line of questioning. One said, "_Ah_," and the other glanced away before adding, "His Royal Highness has asked that he not be disturbed."

Sif stared at them until they withered further.

"_But_," the first page said, "I am quite sure he did not mean you! For you are the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, are you not?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the second page agreed, all but laughing with relief. "Close friends to the Prince! Surely he would want them admitted."

"You may even be able to help him in his search."

"Yes! A few extra pairs of eyes could only be appreciated."

"Right this way, Lady Sif."

As they turned away, Fandral clapped her heartily on the shoulder. "Truly a force to be reckoned with," he said. "On or off the field of battle."

Sif eyed his hand and, when he hastened removed it, gave him her prettiest smile while Volstagg laughed and Hogun narrowed his eyes again. "Aye," she agreed, "and you would do well to remember it."

"I will never forget," Fandral told her with all the wistful sincerity he usually reserved for promises to maidens who knew no better, and when he punctuated it with a low scraping bow she turned on her heel and set off after the pages so quickly that she knew he would have to run to keep up.

Just as well that he could not see her face, however; the smile she could feel tugging at her lips was warm affection for the lot of them, and it would have rather undermined her point.

They could do this. Sif had never been more certain of it. All they needed was to see him, and that would happen in mere moments. Any second now, they would turn a corner, open a door, and-

(strange, her heart was beating so quickly)

-there he would be, perhaps surprised to see them and perhaps not wholly pleased but they would fix that soon, and then he would be only grateful to have such fine friends.

By the time they did, in fact, turn that corner and open that door, the image in her mind was very clear. But somehow, in spite of where they were and what Thor must have come to the Hall of Knowledge with every intent of doing, it had not included any books - and certainly not piles of them, set here and there like spires on a castle, with Thor sitting crosslegged in their midst, one large tome open in his lap and another in his hands. The sound of the door opening did not even appear to faze him.

Sif paused, keenly aware of her own mouth gaping, and Volstagg bumped into her with a force that would have sent a lesser woman sprawling.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, at the same moment as one of the pages announced timidly, "Lady Sif and the Warriors Three to see you, Your Highness."

Which, at least, did finally get Thor's attention; he blinked once, then slowly lifted his head and turned to stare up at her in the narrow doorway and what he could see of Volstagg behind her.

And for an instant as his eyes widened, Sif really thought he might _run_ - but then the instant passed and he was shoving himself up to his feet, letting the heavy tomes fall, to say brightly: "My friends!"

Too brightly, perhaps. Sif stepped into the room to make space for the Warriors Three, and watched as Thor beamed just as forcefully for them.

"It is good to see you! But what brings you here on so fine a day?"

He was not, and never had been, a skilled liar; the way his eyes darted from one to the other of them, the rising pitch of his voice, and how quickly he spoke were all wrong. A poor imitation of what he should have - and once had - exuded naturally.

It did not help his facade that he also looked... markedly unwell. The beginnings of dark circles loomed beneath his eyes, yet his throat was flushed, sweat staining his hairline dark. At the very least, he was not sleeping well.

Abruptly it infuriated her.

"What brings _us_ here?" Sif repeated archly. "What brings _you_ here?"

She could have said more. The words were there within her, a violent torrent just waiting to burst forth.

_Where have you been for the last four days? And before that! What happened to you on your visit to Midgard?! Why do you avoid us now, do you not know how worried we have all been, do you not care?_

At her elbow she was dimly aware of the pages making hasty excuses, and less dimly of Hogun shifting so that he stood between her and Thor or Volstagg's hand settling on her shoulder. Steadying. Reassuring.

Letting her know, without words, that they had the same questions - and reminding her that now, perhaps, was not the time.

Sif took a deep breath, and smiled instead, well-aware that hers was probably no more convincing than Thor's had been and taking some small vengeful pleasure in the way he now looked at her with uncertainty. "After all, I would never have thought to find you reading," she finished, almost smoothly.

"Indeed!" Fandral said quickly. "You must admit, friend; it's not your favored pastime."

"And so _many_ of them," Volstagg agreed. "Are there pictures, at least, to make the reading go faster?"

It was not the easy banter she had hoped to bring him, but after a beat Thor still hitched his smile up a little higher.

"True enough," he said, rueful as he turned back to face the 'spires'. "This is not my usual wont. But I do not read for the pleasure of it."

Fandral knelt to one of the books. "No," he said with some amusement, "I should think not. Thor, where did you _get_ these? 'And then Sir Hrodreker spoke unto-'" He stopped himself, frowning. "I've heard that name."

"Hrodreker," Volstagg repeated, and he too looked thoughtful now. "Aye, lad, of course you have. He was a sorcerer, four thousand ago. Imprisoned for crimes against the throne, they eventually executed him - which wasn't easy, mind you. Old Hrodreker was a shapeshifter, faked his own death at least three times before the All-Father..." The sentence trailed away, and he made no move to continue.

Sif looked from one of them to the other, then to Thor, whose head was bowed. "Those are law-books," she realized. The sheer size and number of them suddenly made a great deal more sense. "You are reading about previous trials."

"...Yes," Thor admitted. Tension had stiffened the line of his shoulders, coiled his hands to fists. "I have been hoping... Asgard has punished men like him before. If I could find a case where - they were able to find justice _without_..."

His voice was terribly small, terribly soft. The hope fragile enough that he dared not speak it aloud, lest it shatter in the open air.

She did not want to hate Loki. She had spent centuries struggling not to hate him. But _oh_, it was so very hard in moments like this.

_Why couldn't you just have _stayed_ dead?_

"You will find a way," she told him, and wished she could have - said more, done more. A wish she had made all too often over the last week; over the last year.

Thor glanced up at her, visibly startled, and at first she thought he was staring at her - her face, perhaps, to judge her sincerity, or - no, _he was staring at her hair_, why would he - but then all his attention was on her face again and he was smiling as if nothing had happened, oblivious to the war now waging within her as she fought to slow her heartbeat and even her breathing.

(Stupid, childish reaction.) (Her hair had been black for _centuries_, why did it still hurt to be reminded...?)

"Thank you, Sif," he said, with such warmth. "I know there has been no love lost between you."

(But when all of Asgard could not stop staring, he alone had never seemed to notice, had never seemed to _care_. He alone had never made her feel ugly.)

She had to force the smile, but the words came easily. "I love _you_, Thor. And he is your brother."

The Warriors Three were quick to chorus their agreement, raising swords to give further testament to their enduring loyalty, and Thor smiled for all of them - warm, appreciative, and she would have _thought_ genuine, except...

Except for the strange something which had moved in his face at her words.

"Still," Volstagg said cheerfully, "I think you've spent enough time this morning with your nose stuck in these dusty old books. If you really want to know about old Hrodreker, _I_ can tell you, and you'll get fresh air at the same time."

Thor hesitated, casting one last lingering look at the books, but finally he relented. "A short break, at least, might serve me well."

A short break. Sif tried not to let her smile falter, and knew from the way the others exchanged glances that they were no more pleased than she. A short break would not be nearly enough time to reach the Blue Mountains, let alone slay a dragon.

Still, it was... progress. A beginning. And an infinite improvement, Sif reminded herself, on the last four days.

They would just have to make the best of it.

"Well, let's be off, then," Fandral hurried to say. "It's been too long since we last had a proper match, and I want the honor of the first round. I..."

But Thor was bending to the books again, this time a smaller stack that had not previously stood out from the rest but now Sif could not help but notice how little like the law-books they looked. Each a different color, some bound in leather, and some very old.

He ran a finger over each spine, mouthing words that might have been the titles, and then nodded to himself with clear satisfaction before lifting his eyes once more to his friends.

"Lead on," he said, grinning at their startled faces. "I will... _borrow_ these on the way out." The unfamiliar concept seemed only to please him further.

His time in Midgard had changed him. Sif knew that, had seen the evidence of it time and time again over the last year, and... not all that change had been for the worse. Thoughtfulness, concern for the safety of his friends - those would only serve him well when he became king.

So why, then, did moments like this - where the boy she had thought she knew so well surprised her even a little - _ache_?

"Of course," Sif said, ushering the Warriors Three ahead of them. "This way."

Soon they would be outside, she told herself. Soon they would be on the same training field they had favored for centuries.

She would try not to wonder what he wanted those books for. She would try not to think of the obvious answer, the answer to so many things where Thor was concerned.

But in her mind's eye, she might let herself picture that skinny boy with the pale, luminous eyes and wonder whether Thor would have been so easily taken in by the monster again and again if it had been wearing its own colors of blood red and deathly blue.


	7. Gale-Force

Loki sat by the window with the best view of the capital and gazed out.

It was a perfect summer day, the sky cloudless and intensely blue, the air fresh and sweet. It was an _Asgardian_ summer day, no different from the one before it, no different from the thousands he had experienced over the course of his still-young life, and almost ruthlessly different from every day he had spent clawing at the edges of the known realms over the course of the last year.

Below him, the citizenry bustled with contentment, enjoying the weather in only the vaguest sense of the word. They gave no thought to their good fortune; the wealthiest never did. Perfect summer days were simply theirs to have, like the gleaming spires of their beautiful city. Like the warmth of the sun.

A warmth he could not, himself, indulge in, when the enspelled windows had not even let him close enough to _open_ them without assistance, let alone reach out-

But Loki stopped that thought before it could go anywhere thoroughly unproductive. The _weather_. Was there any concern more _petty_ or ultimately less relevant?

Unfortunately, he had precious little else to occupy his attention.

Oh, there _were_ the occasional visitors. Here, a platter of food brought by an unwilling member of the Einherjar who, resenting the common servitude he had been reduced to, dragged his feet with every step; there, an aspiring warrior, fresh linens draped over his bony shoulder, running so that he could heave them over the threshold and be back in practice that much faster.

Once, and only once, he had even been graced with the presence of a noble, Oleg Kerrson, a tall dark man Loki had recognized only dimly until he introduced himself. He had a nephew, a painfully stupid boy Loki had once talked into angering a Vanir maid for - _oh_, who could remember anymore. The end result was that the boy had spent a month as a donkey, for which his father really should have been grateful since he had been infinitely more useful that way, but of course Oleg had not been grateful. Of course the man had taken it _personally_ and now wanted to see the architect of all that misery well and properly punished.

By happy chance, he had not yet finished his lunch, so while Oleg stood just beyond the threshold of his cell - brave enough to face him, but not to come within reach, and wasn't _that_ terribly satisfying; even with his magic bound? - Loki had made a show of carving off sumptuous slices of perfect yellow cheese and popping them, one by one, into his mouth. Taking care so that the silver chain that hung between his wrists rattled with every bite.

He hadn't said a word to the man; he hadn't needed to. The message had been received all the same, clear in the trembling fisted hands of his visitor. _Oh, yes. The All-Father takes your humiliation _extremely_ seriously, good sir._

Well. Not _every_ minute in even the dullest day could be a complete waste of time, after all. But the faint smile that came to his lips at this particular memory was fleeting, and then his attention settled once more on the view outside his window because there was nothing else to look at and nothing else to _do_. Perhaps he would rearrange the furniture again, or take another long bath...

Loki drummed the fingers of one hand on his lap, then smoothed his hand firmly down over his thigh instead. He was not impatient. He was merely a little restless, as anyone would have been under the circumstances.

When he had asked for a few books - and his nail paint, if that wasn't too much trouble - the desire for _reading material_ had been mostly smoke screen. Thor was a fool, of course, but fools could still pull their wits about them long enough to suspect the singular request made by a prisoner. So he had not made a _singular_ request. He might just as easily have added any random item to the list: parchment, a basket of strawberries, more hangings for the walls of his beautiful cell.

He had never expected to want the diversion almost as much as he wanted to achieve the actual goal.

He had never expected to be... _bored_.

The wind picked up, and for a moment Loki thought the weather was turning, but the breeze was warm, the sky still flawlessly blue, and abruptly he knew better. _The weather_ was doing nothing at all.

Two days, Loki noted absently. Earlier than he'd expected, all things considered. He caught himself gripping the arms of his chair, nails biting into the leather, and had to consciously clear all the tension from his face and body.

He managed it just in time, for the next instant Thor was rising into view on the far side of the balcony, Mjolnir stretched high over his head and five or six thick tomes under his arm, with an unreasonably broad smile on his lips. His face was flushed, his hair windswept, and his clothing - too plain today for an assembly, plainer in fact than he had ever seen Thor by choice - slightly the worse for wear, as if he'd been in a fight. Or several fights, with very formidable opponents, to bedraggle him enough for it to be noticeable.

Thor was early. And he looked... _happy_.

_Wrong, wrong, everything wrong._ Had he miscalculated? Underestimated his not-brother? (_Over_estimated, more likely.) Loki kept his features carefully blank, only lifting his eyebrows as Thor landed.

The neutrality of his expression did, at least, seem to give the other man pause. He choked up his grip on Mjolnir's handle, thumb rubbing lingeringly over the leather, then hitched his smile fractionally higher. "-We've fine weather this morning."

Only ever so slightly awkward. Ever so slightly foolish. It was not what he had _wanted_, but - whatever this was - there would be advantages to it, too. Loki propped his chin up in one hand and spread a smile deliberately over his own lips. "It's been fine ever since we got here. It's really rather mind-numbingly boring." On inspiration, he added, "You should call up one of your little storms," with an imperious gesture.

Thor gave one of his deep, rumbling laughs. "Just for your amusement," he said, eyes crinkling warmly at the corners.

Not so very long ago, _little storms_ would have been one of those hair-trigger phrases; for half a second he hated the effortless affection on Thor's face and in his voice that had replaced that childish outrage.

For half a second. "Well," he said, easing back in his seat and spreading his hands pleasantly with an entirely incidental little jingle from the chain, "I'm afraid I have run _quite_ low on amusements. I might as well have you do the job for me, really. Unless those are the books I asked for...?"

The other god blinked, then grinned at him. "Of course they are." _As if they would ever have been his own._ He shifted the pile in his arms, sheathing Mjolnir on his belt, and started forward.

Was he really going to try to - yes, he really was. Loki felt his lips curving up and didn't bother to fight it as he watched Thor attempt to stride over the threshold, _attempt_ to enter Odin's cage with one of the most magical objects in all the Nine Realms on his hip. When he found he couldn't, and a look of utterly dumbstruck consternation spread over his face, the tiny smile became a full-blown smirk.

"What is this?" Thor demanded, relenting to stare at the open air with mistrust, and it was so terribly difficult not to laugh.

"Did they _truly_ not tell you, or were you perhaps simply not listening?" Loki asked him in turn. "This _is_ a cell, Thor, and a cell made to hold me. Try putting the hammer down first."

Thor eyed him, of course, because he always seemed to doubt the truths Loki spoke more than the lies, but after a beat he freed up a hand to take Mjolnir and set it on the balcony beside him. Still watching Loki, he took a step closer - and then smiled in relief when this time the empty space between them yielded.

"Better?" Loki asked him mildly, standing to accept the armful.

"Better," Thor agreed, sounding far more pleased than the situation called for. His eyes were crinkling again at the corners. "I apologize for doubting you."

Up until that instant, there had been something almost seductively nostalgic about the entire exchange, but those words-

Those words were... different.

Slowly, Loki placed the books on the bedside table he had moved close to the window. "As you should," he said, almost as easily as he'd intended. "That you should even _think_ to question my word, after centuries upon centuries of knowing me. One might almost think you didn't _trust_ me..."

"Be that as it may," Thor allowed with an obliging chuckle. "In _this_ case I was wrong, and so I apologize."

"I hear that _is_ how it's done, in civilized cultures." Loki spent a few more seconds straightening the books into a neat stack, then counted to ten. "Oh, did you remember my nail oils?" Light and unconcerned, as though he might have forgotten them until just that moment himself.

If he held his breath in the short silence that followed, Thor was none the wiser. "-Ah, yes, that's right. Here," he said, reaching into a pouch on his belt, and then he was extending a small handful of vials. "So glad I could be of - service to my little brother."

Clearly the fool had brought Loki's entire collection, and through his relief he felt a trickle of unwilling fondness. It would have been so easy to return the endearment. "So generous, my liege," he murmured instead, and sat down again to open the remover first. The rest of it would wait until later, but he had _missed_ the adornment.

Of course Thor chose to take issue with his use of words. "That..." Not his most convincingly-genuine laugh. "That will not be necessary, I don't think."

Loki made an inquisitive noise, because of course he had no idea what they were talking about, but did not bother to look up. Remover fist; dehydrated nails took the paint better.

Motion in his peripheral vision meant that Thor was shifting from one foot to the other. Ever physical, he could not debate a matter in his mind without his body joining in the conversation. Finally he said, soft and frustratingly sincere, "You should never feel the need to stand on ceremony."

_Know your place, Brother,_ a different man had said.

"I am, in fact, very literally your prisoner," Loki reminded him with a thin smile. "Soon you will hold all the power of Asgard at your disposal - and then some." He wiped one nail on his left hand smoothly clean, then another. "A man gets tired, pretending he thinks himself capable of comparing to that."

"...Comparing?"

And there was the wounded-puppy tone. This time Loki counted to three, then lifted his eyes to Thor's face with what he knew would seem to be genuine sheepishness. "Don't be like that." _I had no idea my words would hurt you, really._ "You know I get irritable when I'm bored, and then I just say things." He indicated the chair across from his with a tip of the head. "Come join me. Get off your feet."

Thor hesitated, but his expression was already clearing, and soon he took the offered seat. "And here I thought I was supposed to already have alleviated that."

He was so very, very easy. So much easier than he should have been.

"It's a _start_, not a flipped lever," Loki corrected him with a smile. His nails were clear now of natural oils and ready for a fresh coat, so he began to paint them leisurely. "Things to do when you've gone again, mostly. I'm still counting on you to entertain me while you're here."

That provoked another of those deep, rumbling laughs. "Shall I sing you a stirring song of battles hard-won a thousand years before either of us were born?"

"An offer that makes your drinking companions swoon, but I've heard all your songs." One nail complete, and he took a moment to admire how clean it looked, how _right_, before moving on to the next. "And I imagine I know hundreds more than are in your repertoire. Nice try, though."

"You asked for entertainment," Thor said, cheerfully unrepentant. "Unfortunately, I've few skills suited to such a small room."

The words stirred memories of glorious coliseum exhibitions, and Loki let his eyes shut for just an instant, let himself remember. A hundred seasoned warriors at once, with his brother at the center, that feral grin stretching his lips, ready and eager for the challenge. It had been fiercely, brutally beautiful to watch. "That _is_ unfortunate," he replied, opening his eyes again. "I take it you're still refusing to give me my rainstorm. You don't ever use your power like that?"

He kept his tone innocent, and Thor's response was an amused not-quite-an-answer: "I refuse to believe you would really be entertained by a little rain."

"You refuse to believe it because you don't _observe_ enough to see what could be entertaining about it," Loki argued absently. "Rain is random and chaotic, falling and flowing and breaking up light into color, twisting what the eye can see..."

Without any especial intent on his part, his own voice had turned thoughtful, the words coming more slowly, and Loki was vaguely surprised to look down at his left hand and find that he had finished.

"I could watch it all day," he murmured, knowing it was true.

For a year, he had flinched at every rumble of distant thunder, even on alien worlds where all sense told him Thor could not _possibly_ be. But what could the storm possibly do to him now? And he had so enjoyed them before.

Thor was watching his face very closely; he could feel the attention. "And you'd really like that," the other god said. "A _little_ storm."

"Little," Loki agreed airily, waving his newly-painted fingers. "I can do without your flashy light show."

"Oh, can you, then."

"Not my style." The lie of it was absurd. Had he been Thor, Loki imagined he probably would have accompanied half his entrances with thunder and lightning.

Laughter rippled from Thor and he threw back his head with the force of it. "No, of course not! Loki the Understated, I've heard them call you."

"I've heard them call _you_ Thor the Thunderer, but that currently seems to be just words..."

"You _are_ in a state," Thor said fondly. "Very well. If it will _entertain_ my little brother, I suppose I might be able to summon a storm."

Entirely in spite of himself, Loki felt his pulse quicken. He looked down at his nails and did his best to return calmly to the application of more oil, a second coat, but he was still more aware than he wanted to be of the movement as Thor stood and went out onto the balcony to fetch his beloved hammer.

It started even before the sky began to darken: a stirring in the air, close enough and _powerful_ enough that even his numbed nerves could sense it dimly, like a phantom breeze drying cold sweat from his skin.

_Magic_.

Loki let himself look up, then, but pointed his eyes firmly at the far wall instead of the brewing gray clouds. He was shivering, could not help himself, and he would have been disgusted with himself for behaving like an addict if he had had the attention to spare. Five days, that was all it had been; not nearly long enough for the needful pangs he was feeling. But he had _never_ been so long without his power.

He had to turn his head, had to see it when the first drops of rain struck the balcony, and then he was captivated by the clouds, darkening so fast.

This was no little storm.

And there, inches from him, stood Thor, Mjolnir stretched high above his head, face tipped up, focus intense - in full control of the wind whipping around him, the rain that was quickly drenching the unadorned cotton of his clothing to his skin.

Lightning crackled across the sky, thunder chasing it with but a hair's breadth of delay, and somehow Loki was on his feet, as close to the window as he could get, hypnotized and breathless. He could almost feel it, could almost _really_ feel it, the sharp welling of magic in the air with each surge of lightning as the unnatural storm picked up.

So much nicer than the endless, perfect summer days.

Below them, the citizenry no longer bustled with contentment. Instead they scurried, harmlessly inconvenienced but still _scrambling_ to get under shelter or home to retrieve their cloaks. The sight was - really rather pleasant.

"We'll have to close the windows, if you're going to make the winds much stronger," he observed, and his voice sounded oddly hushed to his own ears but Thor seemed to have no such difficulty, chuckling without looking away from the sky.

"You would leave windows open during a storm?"

"I would stand in that courtyard and be soaked clear through by it," Loki told him, tasting each word with slightly more hunger than he had meant to. He would _revel_ in the driving rain, open his mouth to swallow it down, and laugh at all those rushing to escape its ferocity. They who called themselves _gods_.

Thor had turned to stare at him, he knew dimly. When he spoke, his voice was oddly husky at the edges. "Are you that eager to catch cold?"

"Less than a week in Midgard, and already you are worried about colds," Loki said carelessly. "Something tells me I don't have to worry about taking a chill."

Perhaps the reminder stung; perhaps it didn't. He had never been so unconcerned, riveted as he was by not only the people in the courtyard but also the slick rooftops and shining spires of the city, the roiling black sky. Whatever Thor's response to the comment, it was not his problem.

At any rate, Thor eventually found his voice again, and took them firmly away from the point. "Then... I don't see why a little wind should make so much difference."

It would rattle the windows. They would make such terrific noise, and the carpets would get soaked, and the hangings might flap sharply, and it would be _so_ wonderful.

Then, for the first time since the storm had begun, Loki looked away from the storm completely and saw only his brother, soaked to the bone and standing in the middle of it, _mastering_ it. And he thought: what would it be like to touch him right now?

Another round had not been precisely in his plans for the visit. He certainly hadn't ruled out the possibility, either to distract or in order to secure some sort of advantage for himself, but this would be neither.

And yet, he found his fingers curling at the edge of the balcony door.

"Bring the full might of your wind, then," he murmured. "And let the storm go."

Thor glanced at him, then back up at the sky, then slowly back to him again; blue eyes lingered this time, uncertain but - struck, it seemed. What must his face have looked like, to prompt that stare?

"Weren't you the voice in my ear, complaining about my lack of control?" Thor asked after a beat.

He certainly had been, but Loki found himself markedly uninterested in seeing any more control just at the moment. "Long ago," he said dismissively. "You've crafted it carefully. It's stable, isn't it? Now let it loose."

_Let it become chaos and rage, until it burns itself to ash. And come to me._

No, he had not planned for this - but he _wanted_. If not for the wards that held him back, he would have been out there on the balcony with Thor, his hands all over his brother's body, feasting on the muscular plains of a body that clothing so wet did nothing to hide, and perhaps - if he dug his nails in deeply enough, if he plunged his tongue past Thor's lips, he would be able to feel it. Touch it. Taste it.

Only when Thor wavered did it occur to Loki that he was taking a risk. That, while stoking the other god's passion back to a heady blaze had been easy enough _before_, with time and space to himself Thor might have rallied; might now resist. But then the hesitation passed, and the wind picked up into a howling force that drove the rain in through the windows and the open balcony door to strike his skin, and Thor's eyes stayed on him all the while, branding-hot.

Then he let the storm go, carefully, and with a dull thud dropped Mjolnir to the balcony floor as he closed the distance between them in three long strides.

He smelled like ozone, and Loki was not certain he had ever more luxuriated in a scent, breathing deep of acrid air as Thor's powerful arms wrapped around his waist, and then they were _touching_, their bodies lined together, and Thor was wet and cold and _hot_ just beneath the cold and thrumming with power, with _magic_, and he could hardly think through the intensity of his starved body's response.

Then they were kissing, and Loki poured all his skill into that: curling his tongue against the seam of Thor's mouth, coaxing more from him, encouraging it when Thor shuddered and turned the kiss into something harder and fiercer. There was tautness and tension beneath his fingers as they skimmed down over the other god's chest, sizzling, _yes_, and it was only natural to seize the laces and yank them loose, pulling the tunic open urgently until there was bare skin under his hands. The cold length of chain trapped between them somehow only made the rest of it more intense.

Thor's chest heaved with every breath, muscle rippling smoothly, and he reached up to assist him in his task, shrugging quickly out of his shirt and hastening to pull the hem of Loki's from his trousers, but never did he break the kiss, and Loki scraped his teeth tautly over his brother's bottom lip, found and pinched a nipple between two fingers. One or both earned him a thin groan.

Outside the storm raged, the sky dark as midnight on a moonless night and then bright with lightning. Loki tasted wind and rain and magic on his tongue, all of it tangled up in the musky scent of the man crushed against him, a man whose hands were roaming over his flesh with what seemed impossibly like almost as much hunger as he felt.

It was intense, it was beautiful, it was perfect, and it was nowhere _near_ enough.

Loki rocked them together, breathless, his fingers carving half-moon circles into Thor's sculpted biceps at the friction. He was hard, _so_ hard, and all he wanted as he dropped his head to the other god's neck, lips fastening on a trickle of rainwater, was more.

And Thor seemed all too eager to give it, his hands sliding lower and lower until they were cupping and _squeezing_ him, sending another surge of heat to pool between his thighs. Then they were grinding into each other, and Loki brought teeth into his next kiss before fisting a hand in that perfect golden hair and _dragging_ Thor with him as he backed away from the balcony.

There was a bed in the room, and he wanted to be on it. He wanted to be on it now, or five minutes ago if at all possible.

When Thor caught on, he groaned again - lower in his throat, and longer too - before surging against him. The mattress came up against his back and Loki could feel the wet of his hair and skin and trousers soaking through to the quilt beneath him. It would make for an uncomfortable damp spot later, but he could not bring himself to care, not with Thor wedged between his legs, kissing the breath from his lungs.

The energy lingered in the air around them, ran hot in Thor's blood, and blind though he still was to them he could almost, _almost_ feel the thick skeins of magic circling around them both.

Still he wanted more. He worked a hand between their bodies, between their hips, and Thor had to break the kiss to gasp at the contact but then he was plundering Loki's mouth, his tongue thick and eager, the responsiveness enough to make Loki's own cock ache dizzyingly. Yes, _yes_, just - like that, that was so good and Thor wasn't even touching him.

Loki dragged his fingertips up to the other god's waistband, slipped them beneath it to touch bare skin and felt Thor's belly tremble; slid deeper until his hand was cradling his brother's hot length. He kept his touch light, lacing it with a slow sweet suction on the tongue in his mouth until he was doing both at once, until he had Thor rutting into his hand and moaning against his lips.

It was so dark now in the tower, but another rumbling flash of light threw the shadows into sharp relief and made Loki shiver in spite of himself. A laugh bubbled up out of him, husky and choked, and he tightened his grip on Thor's cock, very deliberately cutting off the other man's circulation for an erratic heartbeat before stroking him again smoothly.

The unpredictable touch had its desired effect, Thor moaning through his teeth, but he thought the noise sounded ever so slightly strained. The words that spilled from him next were even more so. "Enjoying - your... handiwork?"

"Oh, I am," Loki assured him thickly. Turning his head, it was a simple matter to breathe his next words against Thor's moist lips. "As I think - you are, Brother."

He dragged his fingers to the very tip of the other god's cock, traced the ridge of foreskin with his thumb, and purred when Thor attacked his mouth in retaliation, all teeth and tongue, _yes_. That was so-

That was... Thor's hand on his wrist, arresting the movement of his hand effortlessly.

"Don't you..." Thor's grip guided his fingers into a slower, firmer pumping stroke, "...want something more than this?"

It took Loki a minute before the question slotted into its proper place; there was that sense of _unfairness_, of a favor owed, because as far as Thor knew there was a debt of pleasure between them. He lifted his head less than an inch so that he could flicker his tongue over his great fool of a brother's lips, turning the question around on him: "Do you want to mount me again?"

Thick callused fingers tightened their grip on his wrist and Thor went very still, the only sound for a long moment his panting breaths, and Loki spread out sweetly beneath him, making an offering of long pale body in a sinuous stretch until he was very sure the rest of the question had been completely forgotten.

"Make yourself - ready, then," Thor said at last, his voice thin and strangled.

Perfect.

Loki bit down on his lip, rougher, in approval - and enjoyed the hungry sound it got him - before squirming up a little higher on the bed, dragging the silver chain with him. There was a bottle of silken oil on the remaining bedside table, confiscated from the bathing chamber _just_ in case, and he snatched it up, twisting off the cap to pour a little of the liquid into his palm.

Already he had Thor's full attention, and it grew only more intent as he shifted up onto his knees, dragging his loose slacks down to expose his own arousal to the air. He was dark with blood, thickened and so ready for this, but he took his time. He settled back down on the bed slowly, spreading his thighs wider than was strictly necessary so that when he lifted his hips, when he made a graceful arch of his back, Thor would have an unobstructed view.

One finger, two; well-oiled, tracing a measured circle around his entrance - and then inside, pushing the air from his throat in a breathy sound and curling his toes in the sheets.

"-Does..." Thor stumbled, tried again: "Does it..."

_Hurt_ was obviously the word about which he was most concerned. Loki laughed, soft, dragging his fingers most of the way out and then _rocking_ back in again, oh. "I - love the way it feels," he uttered, head rolling back. "I have only to think about - you having me, riding me like this storm..." A third finger, and he shoved his hips into them, cutting himself off in a shivering moan. "...and I need no other touch."

He thought he heard a gasp, fancied he could feel those darkened eyes burning into him. "I do not - ride the storm," Thor said vaguely. "The storm..." But there, words apparently abandoned him, for he let them trail away.

His body was stretching easily now, accepting each thrust of fingers without even the smallest hint of strain, so Loki did not bother pretending to care. He tugged his hand free, opened his eyes lazily to find Thor in the next burst of light, and uttered: "To me."

Thor muttered something that might have been a curse, and the next second he was right there between Loki's legs, fingertips scalding on his hips. "You wish - to be had?" he said in a breath, right _there_, the head of his cock pressing against his hole, and Loki couldn't help the way his hands fisted in the sheets or the hiss when Thor rocked against him almost - teasingly.

"Was I - somehow unclear?" he replied, aiming for cool unconcern but barely managing to keep the edge of testiness at bay.

And Thor had the gall to chuckle. "Perhaps I'm after... more silver words," he suggested, still hovering there, so close but _not yet moving_.

_Bastard_.

Loki brought his legs up to hook firmly around his not-brother's hips. "_Take me_," he ground out. "I'll beg if that's what will make you give us what we both want."

His whole being felt alive with the lingering magic, the storm outside and just under Thor's skin, and he wanted that energy _in_ him, but it was almost worth it for the way Thor's pupils fanned out until there was just a ring of electric blue around their black.

"_Loki_," he whispered, drawing his hips back, and then he was shoving forward - shoving in - _piercing_ him in one full thrust that made Loki's eyes roll back into his head, made his cock _throb_.

Dimly he was aware of arching up off the bed, of the sharp cry that burst from his throat, _oh_. So much, so fast, his eager body empty and then utterly impaled, but there was no discomfort at all this time; he'd been very, _very_ ready.

Somehow it wasn't enough to have his legs wrapped around Thor and he found himself reaching up, seizing the golden god's shoulders and digging in to hold on.

But, damn him, Thor was not _moving_. Loki shifted his hips up, urging, but Thor only shuddered and held all the more desperately still; what he could see of Thor's face was twisted with stubborn concentration.

With stubborn restraint.

Even when he finally began to move, the restraint lingered, and though the friction inside him felt _good_, it was far from enough. He needed - more, wanted it rough and intense and so charged that he couldn't _think_ for the primal satisfaction of the rhythm.

Loki turned his head, bringing his lips to Thor's ear. "Show it to me," he husked. "All that passion, all that - fury. Don't hold back." He skimmed his teeth over the fleshy lobe. "I can take it. I _need_ it."

He had gotten his pretty words after all, and the effect they had on him was profound: Thor moaned out loud and _shoved_ in on the next thrust, powerful hands forcing Loki's knees higher on his hips and wider so that he could get that - much - deeper on the next stroke, and it was everything - everything he'd wanted.

"_Yes_," Loki hissed, and he knew he sounded wanton but he could not have cared less. He was on fire, his heartbeat pounding in his cock, seed leaking from his slit, and as Thor crashed into him again and _again_ it was all he could do to meet each thrust.

He had never been so - aware of _everything_. The cool wind on his skin, the rainwater dripping from Thor above him, the storm outside and the magic thick in the air of what had for five days been the _void_ of his cell, the spark of hot ragged pleasure that came with every roll of Thor's hips. The sound of the headboard _thump, thump, thump_ing against the wall, his own gasping breaths.

Faster and faster, harder and harder, seconds blurring into minutes and minutes blurring into who knew how long while he clung to Thor and saw and heard and _felt_ everything with raw intensity, until very abruptly the God of Thunder had gone from reining himself in completely - to holding nothing back.

The bed beneath them creaked once, ominously, and then split right down the center.

It was like lightning, pure and unfettered _hunger_, and for a brief moment everything else fractured, fell away. Thor had turned to suck on Loki's throat and Loki clutched desperately at his hair, arched under him, and in a needy voice he did not recognize cried out, "_Brother!_"

Thor went utterly still against him for a fraction of a second and he thought he was going to weep for frustration but then he was being pinned to the mattress, hands shoving his knees down off Thor's hips so that he could rut mindlessly into him and oh, _oh_, somehow it was even faster now, even _harder_, violent and animal and he could not begin to hold on-

And then he was spilling, spilling _hard_ between them, twisting in Thor's iron grip and splattering their bellies for a long, white-hot moment.

Distantly he knew Thor was plowing into his spent body, but _he_ remained thoroughly melted, trembling and sated. When he felt a rush of liquid heat inside him and Thor sank down on top of him, warm and enveloping, Loki just turned his head aside and let his eyes slip shut. Waited for his heartbeat to slow, for his ragged breathing to ease.

To be truly _warm_. He had almost forgotten what it was like.

He could still feel everything: the storm and Thor's bright-hot magic, the wind and wet, the mess they had made together, and the faraway discomfort of the shattered bed. And there wasn't a single thought in his mind, just this - deep contentment.

After what seemed like a very long time, a tickling sensation at his throat told him Thor had kissed it, light and soft and utterly meaningless, and without quite meaning to Loki smoothed his fingers through his brother's damp golden hair, delicately easing the roots where he'd pulled sharply.

"Mmm..." Movement against his neck that might have been a smile. "Loki..."

Any number of insipid thoughts were crossing his mind. He wanted to curl around the man in his arms, to nuzzle and hum and tease. Loki did none of these things, just stroked his hair again and said thickly, "This storm... I like it."

That would have to be good enough.

He felt as much as heard the rumble of Thor's laughter in response. "How - fortunate, as it was... entirely at your whim," the golden god mumbled, sounding half asleep already.

Loki smiled faintly. "You can thank me later."

"So generous, little brother."

Was he really. Somehow, Loki did not think so. He settled his hands on Thor's flanks, stroking up and down them lightly, then pressed his lips to other man's throat once - and then tightened his grip, steeling his muscles so that he could push and steer Thor over onto his back, disentangling them gently.

Blue eyes rolled open lazily, sought out his face, slipped shut again. When the lightning illuminated his face, Loki could not help thinking it looked exceptionally peaceful.

So beautiful, his perfect golden brother.

"-This bed is uncomfortable," Thor announced a moment later, the frown audible in his voice.

And such a fool. Loki chuckled and rolled onto his own belly. "It's _broken_," he pointed out.

"Broken?" Confusion waged what seemed an extremely sleepy battle with outrage. "What petty insult do they think to make by that?"

Loki felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I will do all of the complicated math for you, Brother." He slung an arm over Thor's chest and tucked his chin into it comfortably. "It was _not_ broken an hour ago. Yet it is broken now." Loki put on his most thoughtful tone. "Think you that someone came in to sabotage it while we were - otherwise engaged?"

"...Ah." Thor cast what he probably thought was a surreptitious look around at the bed, then muttered something that sounded rather like, "I seem to have that effect on furniture."

"So all the rumors about Thor Odinson _are_ true," Loki responded, teasing - almost playful, tracing a finger over the other god's collarbone - before he realized he was doing it and stopped himself, struggling to wrangle his mood.

Of course, Thor noticed nothing. "It has never mattered before," he murmured, eyes slipping shut again. When he spoke next, the words were hardly discernible for his languor: "I will tell them it is my fault."

"Will you?" Loki asked, mildly curious, but his only answer was a noise of affirmation.

Apparently the discomfort of the sundered bed was not so great that Thor was unable to fall asleep on it.

He had been just the same as a child, perfectly capable of falling asleep anywhere - even in the middle of his sentences. Even when the entire point of those sentences had been to protest that he was _not even the littlest bit tired yet_.

For a long moment, Loki stayed where he was, one hand resting on Thor's chest, gazing down at him. Then he withdrew his hand and shifted onto his back, levering himself up off the mattress soundlessly.

It would all serve, of course. Was, in fact, clearly serving already, if Thor trusted him enough to fall asleep beside him...

But almost as soon as that thought had occurred, Loki dismissed it. Best not to get overconfident. He had already failed once to predict a man he'd known all his life; where _was_ Thor's shame? At first it had been as if nothing had happened between them at all, and powerful denial might well have accounted for that - but at a word from him, Thor had come readily.

Loki had been so _certain_.

Mistakes were something everyone made and only a fool believed himself the exception to _everyone_. Sometimes, even the best-laid plans fell apart for reasons beyond your control. But Loki did not like that he had made this particular mistake. The few times he had somehow managed to underestimate Thor, he had paid dearly for it.

He paused by the formerly-bedside table and sorted through the books that waited for him there. _The Servants of Svartalfheim, A History_. _Botanical Curiosities of the Nine Realms_. _A Compendium of Musical Theory and Practice_. The subjects were wide-ranging, but for the most part they were, as he had noted earlier, not light reading in any sense of the word, and in fact several of them were well over a thousand pages in length. Inexplicably, there was also a slim volume of Dwarven poetry, which he had failed to notice before only because the other books in Thor's arms had completely hidden it from view.

What was all of this supposed to mean? Aside from the rather obvious fact that, when limited to nonmagical texts, Thor had no idea what his so-beloved little brother might like?

Loki started to lift a book, then stopped, staring at his own hand. He was in no state to be touching _anything_. As if the dried sweat and splatters of his own seed weren't bad enough, his nails were _ruined_, black smudged all over his fingers and probably the _sheets_. He badly needed that long bath now, and the heat would have been...

He spent several minutes suspended between the bathing chamber and his wrecked bed, but eventually Loki went instead to the open balcony, stood before it in the full force of the storm until his skin had been battered clean by the freezing rain, and though he waited for almost an hour the cold never burned the way it should have.


End file.
